Seed
by Silverr
Summary: The Queen of the Succubi wants Gold seed - and to get it gives each Saint whatever he wants or needs most. Erotic gothic yaoi drama with demons, Spectres, Silvers, Bronzes, love, angst, twincest, kink, violence, yuri, and WAFF. ** First posted 2005.
1. Prologue

_St. Seiya_ is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. _Knights of the Zodiac_ is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

A Succubus wants Gold seed - and to get it fulfills the desire each Saint can't admit to. Erotic gothic yaoi drama with demons, Spectres, longing, love, angst, twincest, kink, violence, WAFF, and yuri. Bronze and Silver Saints guest star.

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**NOTE: Though most of the chapters focus on one Saint, the story is a sustained narrative. In other words, try not to skip any chapters.**

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**Seed  
**_by Silverr_

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**Prologue**

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It happened suddenly . . . one moment they were sleeping, the next they stood bound to stone slabs lining the walls of a circular chamber, without their Cloths, unable to move or attack. Torches with low blue flames cast a sickly light.

As their eyes adjusted they saw a figure in the center of the room. It moved, and revealed a woman with pale green skin and hair that undulated like a nest of snakes. She turned, and her skin changed to a deep blue, blood from the belt of human heads She wore ribboning her legs: turned again, and the heads bleached into skulls that matched her hair and bone-white face. Another turn, and She was made of flame, her nipples red coals, the delta between her legs a dark ember.

Her gaze fell on Shaka of Virgo first, whose face and hair were luminous in the gloom. She walked towards him, hips swaying, and asked, "You're a loyal Saint of Athena?"

"We are all loyal to Athena," Shaka said firmly.

"You'd do _anything_ she asked?" Her body now was indistinct, made of smoke and shadow.

Saga of Gemini demanded, "What is your business with us?"

Ignoring Saga, She moved from Shaka to Aiolia of Leo and asked softly, "You are all men." She looked from Saint to Saint, openly savoring them. "Yes, quite male," she said with obvious relish. "You serve a Goddess who is also a mortal woman." She paused a moment to let that thought sink in. "Haven't you all dreamed, at least once, that some day that she'd come to you - and ask you to serve her not just as a Saint serves a goddess, but as a _man serves a woman?_"

"No!" Even in the dim light Aiolia's face was clearly furious.

"Ah, don't lie to me," She said, moving past Aiolia to the nude form of Deathmask of Cancer. As She moved the smoke became white robes, and long lavender hair. She stopped in front of Deathmask, and opened her robe. Perfect breasts with large aureoles, the nipples tight. She cupped the pale mounds in her hands, stepping close as she offered them to him, speaking with the voice of Saori. "Look at my breasts. So soft, so enticing. Wouldn't you like to suckle them?"

Deathmask grunted in disgust and turned his head away, but She smiled faintly as She saw the flesh between his legs twitch slightly.

Still in the form of Saori, She moved to the next Saint, Aldebaran of Taurus.

"Of course you understand that I can't say it plainly," She ran pale fingers over his broad brown chest, fanning them across his muscled abdomen. "but certainly you can read it in my eyes, how I lie awake night after night in my high bower, all alone in my chilly bed . . . wishing that a pair of strong arms would gather me up in a warm embrace."

As Aldebaran glared, She turned slowly and continued in a throaty whisper, as if seducing them all, "It's so difficult . . . I always have to be so strong. None of you suspect how much I long to surrender myself to someone I trust . . . to allow myself to be swept away by passion . . . to be overpowered by the force of virile manhood." She caressed her breasts and smiled faintly, seeing through her lowered lashes the effect her words and actions were having on some. "Yes, I am a goddess, but I am also a woman, ripe with desire. I ache for the same things other women ache for." She opened her robe all the way, revealing the sweet triangle of fur that topped her long pale thighs. Languorously She slid her hands down over her body, rubbing a palm over her belly then curling a finger into her sex. "I can never say it, but I long for a Saint's hard flesh to part my virgin loins, to lift me to ecstasy." She moaned as She stroked herself, and there was a single, sharp intake of breath from across the room. "Won't anyone come to me in the night," she said with a sigh, "and prove to be my strongest, my most loyal knight?"

"You are no woman. You are a _demon_." Milo of Scorpio said furiously from behind her.

"No mere demon, my dearest," She said with a smile, "but the Queen of the Succubi. And as such I know and can give each of you your deepest, most hidden longing . . . " She turned back to Aldebaran. "Although some desires are barely hidden at all, are they, Taurus Saint?"

When Aldebaran did not reply She leaned close and said in a stage whisper that carried across the room, "Your eyes betray you, you see, your greedy eyes that fly so hungrily to their sweet target again and again, like a bee lapping nectar from the tiniest flower . . . "

Startled, Aldebaran looked away.

"What is it to you what we desire?" Camus of Aquarius demanded from across the crypt.

"And she has said nothing of her price," Shura of Capricorn warned. "There is _always_ a price for pleasure."

"Nothing, really," She said. "I will be content to take away the seed you spill."

There was a gasp. Aphrodite of Pisces asked, "Our _seed_? But why?"

"That is none of your concern," She replied lightly. "Just think - you can possess whatever you most long for, without complication or consequence."

_~ To be continued ~_

A note: In a reverse of most M fics, this one starts out more "PWP" -ike in early chapters, and then plot starts to take over.


	2. Aries Mu

**Mu**

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She stepped to the next Saint, Mu of Aries. He returned her look impassively. "You are of the first house, so I will start with you."

Mu inclined his head, and said, "You will find we will not allow ourselves to be used."

"Saints are human," She said softly, so that only he could hear, "But I am not. I smell the strongest desires like a hyena finds the helpless cub. Even in the deepest grass." She put her hand to his forehead. "Even yours." After a moment She took a step back, and held her robe wide as the nude body of Saori melted away, reforming. "See?"

Her torso became scarlet and breastless above an oversized phallus: the robes became towering, multicolored gossamer. Large red eyes dominated the Spectre's cruel, beautiful face. She — or rather he — caressed Mu's belly with red hands as the huge butterfly wings curved around him, dusting the Aries Saint's bare shoulders and arms with green and gold powder. The curved lips parted, and a pointed black tongue with a barbed tip licked Mu's mouth delicately.

Mu shrugged lightly. "Your tricks have no effect, as you can see."

"Why resist me?" said the silky voice of the Spectre. "Why not take the pleasures I can offer you? Or would you rather punish me?" Inside the private space formed by his wings, he pressed himself against the Aries Saint as he whispered, "If you like, you can trap me in your Crystal Net. Do anything you want to me, take me any way you want to. Hear me scream as you peel away my carapace, tear my flesh, crush my wings."

"Cease this noise and leave me," Mu said. Closing his eyes, he dismissed the succubus.

Her eyes sparked, and She said with venom as She returned to Saori's form, "I will **not** be denied." She touched the slab Mu was bound to, and it floated forward from the wall, then slowly tilted from vertical to horizontal. She took a small serpent from her robes and bent down to lay it on Mu's chest. It uncoiled and slithered out of sight between his legs.

After a moment Mu shuddered slightly. "No," he whispered, and then again through clenched teeth. "_No._"

"Stop! What are you doing? Leave him alone!" someone demanded.

She studied Mu's face, her eyes baleful. "You see? My faithful servant knows where to slide . . . knows the secret places of your body, where a single touch will turn your body traitor . . . now let's see what else you are hiding from me." He tried to move his head away as She reached for him again. "Yes, let's go deeper . . ." After a pause She let out a long satisfied sigh. "Ah, _that_ was worth looking for . . . but so sad, that such a simple thing should be buried so deeply."

As she looked down at Mu with a chilly smile her breasts flattened as her as her shoulders widened. Her flesh became light gold, her long hair grew dark, and her eyes lightened to light gray as a blurred tattoo emerged on the muscled back.

Next to Mu, Aldebaran sucked in his breath in recognition. Across the room Shura hissed in surprise. Deathmask let out a harsh, derisive bark of laughter.

"You are an abomination," Mu said coldly, but his face was flushed.

"I _will_ have my way," She purred in a suddenly deep voice, stroking his face as She climbed atop him. "I will not be denied. You'll see."

~ : ~

He woke from the dream feeling uneasy.

He had kept Shiryu, recovering from his blood-sacrifice, warm the night before, and now it was day. Shiryu had finally struggled up from coma into mere deep sleep sometime in the night, and now he lay on his side next to Mu, his top leg bent and draped over the Atlantean, his head on Mu's shoulder, his hand on Mu's chest, the rest of his body pressed tight against Mu's side.

Too tight. Mu could feel the Bronze Saint's early morning hardness against his hip. Teleporting away was too sudden and would probably wake Shiryu, who needed the sleep. The well-muscled leg pinned him down quite firmly, but perhaps if he eased sideways gradually . . .

"No," Shiryu murmured as soon as Mu moved. The arm stretched across his chest, the knee came down between his legs, and Shiryu slid atop him. "Where do you think you're going?" He looked down at Mu with a sleepy smile, but in his eyes was an unfamiliar expression.

"I," Mu began, but Shiryu brought a hand to his face, running his thumb over Mu's cheekbone. He rocked his hips almost imperceptibly, and if Mu had not been thinking of his maleness before he was now.

And then Shiryu's mouth was on his. Stunned at Shiryu's behavior Mu froze. Shiryu pressed his mouth down hard and pushed his tongue past Mu's unresisting lips, an intimate invasion that was was disturbing yet also exciting. Mu's body felt as heavy as lead, unable to move. After a few minutes the kiss was broken as the loose nightshirt Mu had worn to bed was pulled up over his head, twisted to bind his arms, then tied to the headboard. Shiryu rubbed against him, and the feel of skin was astonishing. Mu's throat was swathed with rough kisses and bites; then Shiryu began to pull and twist his pale nipples mercilessly between finger and thumb, making him squirm. The hand moved along his side, raking fingernails hard enough to draw blood. The pain was a welcome punishment for the guilt Mu felt at the pressure building in his lower body . . .

"Shiryu," he protested. "I can't. . . ." He couldn't allow this to progress: Shiryu, although obviously no longer a child, was still young and innocent and clearly did not know what he was doing.

Shiryu sat up, and Mu suddenly felt chill air on his lower body. Where had his clothes gone? And the sheets? He only wondered for a moment before Shiryu's head dipped down and Mu felt wet warmth. A surge of pleasure mixed with panic as he realized that Shiryu was ... _sucking_ him. He must stop this! He pulled against the shirt binding his hands, but the cloth was as unyielding as stone. The strong white teeth pressed into him almost threateningly, but then he gasped at the lascivious swirl of tongue. Shiryu nudged his thighs apart and he didn't resist, even when there was a touch at his most intimate opening. Long fingers entered him and he writhed. It was more pleasurable than anything he had ever imagined. "This is not real," he gasped between waves of sensation, "and you are . . . not Shiryu. . . . I'm still . . . dreaming. . . ." Yes, he had gone to sleep in Sanctuary, not Jamir. There had been a shapshifter, a succubus, and so this was not, could not be the real Shiryu. She had borrowed the boy's form to trick and torment him. But by all that was holy, that mouth, those fingers . . . He was ashamed of the urge to thrust mindlessly into the mouth behind the curtain of black hair, but then not-Shiryu pulled away, leaving him throbbing.

The demon knelt by his side and regarded him, a hand continuing to caress, now unexpectedly gentle. "So what if it's true?" it asked. "Why the restraint?"

Mu shook his head. "It's wrong, I can't . . ."

"How can there be a wrong? If this is only a dream, it won't do the boy any harm, will it?" Without waiting for an answer the black-haired imitation swiftly knelt astride Mu's thighs, His long hair trailed on Mu's chest like snakes' tails as he leaned forward and whispered, "Why not enjoy yourself? You know that this is the only way you'll ever have him." The succubus reached back to hold Mu steady as he began to impale himself.

"I don't want . . ." Mu trembled as his higher self fought the blaze of the hot, tight flesh sliding around him.

The false Shiryu leaned back and rose until just the tip of the shaft was inside him, then slowly sank down again and murmured, "Oh yes, you do. You can lie to yourself but not to me. I will not release you until you admit the truth."

Mu choked on the intensity of emotion assaulting him. He had been drawn to Shiryu from the first instant he saw him at Jamir, of course, but after the bloodletting Shiryu had been pale, weak, near death, helpless, and Mu had carefully touched him only chastely, in healing . . . this Shiryu who was not-Shiryu above him now was completely different, vital, virile, wanton and sensuous, full lips parted, sultry gray eyes half closed . . . his muscled body rippling with each sinuous movement . . . his untouched manhood thick with blood, veined and beautiful, the droplet on the end begging to be licked . . . As the approaching explosion built inside of him Mu gasped, "Yes, yes, it is true, I once desired him, I wanted to touch him, explore him, initiate him . . . but he has never at any time given any sign that he would welcome such advances and so long ago I accepted that I could never become his lover."

The demon with Shiryu's form rose again, deliberately letting Mu almost slide out of the paradise of his body, and whispered hoarsely, "Yes, yes, but you were wrong, you didn't see that he felt the same, that he shared the fire . . . he was too shy to do anything about it when you were alone at Jamir. . . . But it's your face he imagines when he takes Shunrei. . . he pretends it's you when she pleasures him . . . He loves you, Mu."

"No." Mu squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, tears beading his lashes. _This is not real. To release my feelings, to act them out even with a simulacra . . . What will the price be? Shura was right, there is always a price _

"He has always wanted you," the demon continued relentlessly, "Take this chance to show him how you feel . . . _now_!"

Something shattered inside of Mu finally, blasting aside all restraint, joy and lust a deafening harmony . . . with a cry he thrust upwards, again and again . . . until soon, too soon, he was coming, a white-hot blaze obliterating all thought . . . It felt as though his very soul was flowing out in the gush of seed.

~ : ~

"See?" She looked down at Mu, eyes unseeing, completely lost in fantasy, his hands clenched into fists, his throat arched in ecstasy, his breathing ragged sobs. "I _told_ you I would not be denied."

One by one She went to them then. Few put up more than token resistance; after all, She had just broken and ridden Mu, who like Shaka had seemed completely immune to carnal desire: if Mu had been overcome, who would expect them, being only human, to possibly resist?


	3. Taurus Aldebaran

**_Warning: citrusy yaoi ahead._**

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Aldebaran**

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He lost track of how long he'd been hiding. He could not yet bear to face anyone, not while this cold burning shame filled his belly, this wish to run away and hide where no one knew him. Where no one knew his secret.

When he heard the footsteps, heard his name called, he didn't answer.

The voice went away.

~ : ~

He had been walking in the field behind the bathhouse, near the tall grasses that grew where the drainpipe came out. When he first heard the echo of the bathhouse door closing he hadn't paid much mind, but after a moment he heard a lilting song. He was curious: who among his fellow Saints had such a voice? He walked around to the front of the building and stepped quietly inside.

No one was in the antechamber, with its tidy shelves of towels, wooden buckets, baskets of soap, and small jars of oils, but the song continued. He carefully pushed open the swinging door to the bath area just enough to see inside.

Through the steam he could see the singer, apparently unaware that he had a visitor, washing himself before entering the pool. He was slim, but as he stretched and bent and twisted to soap each part of his body, the movements brought out the lithe muscles under the glistening skin, silver in the dim light. He dipped his bucket into the steaming pool, then stepped to the drain and poured the water over his body to rinse himself. The Taurus Saint thought that the nude form was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, more graceful than any ancient sculpture.

The singer set the bucket down, stretched his arms over his head, arched his back, rolled his head as if loosening a crick in his neck. He twisted the shimmering lilac fall of his hair to squeeze out the excess water, then picked up a small jar of oil next to his towel and strolled to a narrow window where a shaft of light rippled like a golden veil in the steam of the bathhouse. He poured some of the oil into his hand, bent to set the jar on the low windowsill, then languorously began to masturbate. After a moment he closed his eyes, his lips parting as if kissing the sunlight.

Aldebaran knew that the steam would not hide him if the singer looked his way, but he didn't care: he couldn't tear himself away from the sight of those long, delicate fingers curled around the rosy erection. He wanted his own hand to be there, his own mouth, and he bit hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan.

The singer frowned, frustrated. stroked himself half-heartedly a few more times, then pulled his long damp hair forward over one shoulder, held the oil jar to the back of his neck, and tipped it until a silvery stream coursed down his spine and disappeared between his buttocks. Then he turned and looked straight at the visitor in the doorway. "Will you come to me?"

Aldebaran stepped forward unhesitatingly, his heart singing. He sometimes felt lumbering and awkward around the smaller man, but not today: Today the acceptance and welcome in the violet eyes drew him like a beacon. With each step, another piece of his Cloth fell away.

"Why do you look so surprised?" the singer asked as he came close.

"Because I can't believe that you - is this a dream?"

"Perhaps," Mu said. "In dreams, anything is possible. Obstacles fall away. Old friends can become lovers." A bit shyly, he leaned against the tall Brazilian. "Just as easily as this."

Aldebaran needed no further encouragement, and he embraced Mu with all the pent up longing of years of silent worship – although he was also determined not to hurry, to savor every minute of this dream before dawn's light woke him and took it away. His fingertips traced the ribbon of oil, and Mu shifted slightly so that they fit even closer together. After a few moments, he felt the smaller man shake with silent laughter. "What is this?" he asked, pulling away enough to look down at Mu's face.

"Our difference in height will make some things more of a challenge." Mu's sparkling eyes dropped to indicate Aldebaran's erection, poking him well above his navel; then his hand reached up to touch the full mouth, eleven inches above his own. He pointed at the low windowsill. "Is that the right height for me to stand on, do you think?" he asked.

Aldebaran's eyes went wide in surprise, and he grinned. "Perhaps this will do instead." He lifted Mu up; as he did so the long legs went around his waist, and the strong arms around his neck. "This way no one passing the bathhouse will get a view of your backside. I don't need any competition," he said with a smile.

Kissing someone you've loved and desired for years can be either wonderful or disappointing . . . this was not one of the disappointing ones. It is also said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but what's never said is that reality is better than a thousand pictures. As they kissed Aldebaran's hands roamed over Mu's back, memorizing every curve and bump, every bone and muscle and tender spot to replay later.

"Aldebaran," Mu whispered.

The Taurus Saint bent his head into the curve of Mu's neck as his fingers followed the trail of oil down between Mu's buttocks. He knew more or less what could happen next, and his hands shook a little as he reached underneath, giving the area he knew would need preparation only the lightest of touches. Mu pressed against him, shivering.

"Are you cold?" Aldebaran asked. "Should we go in the water?"

"I do not want to _bathe_," Mu said, his voice low and almost angry-sounding. His hands gripped Aldebaran's shoulders as he levitated the oil jar.

That was enough to sweep away the last of Aldebaran's hesitancy. He dipped his fingers into the oil and began doing what he had always dreamed of doing – stroking, pressing, caressing, until Mu, gasping, said "It's time." In a fluid motion he let go of Aldebaran and knelt by a bench at edge of the bath. He looked over his shoulder with a shy half-smile, which faded at the expression on Aldebaran's face. "What is it?"

Aldebaran was frowning at his member. How could he think of pushing this into his gentle friend? It would split him like firewood! "I couldn't bear it if I hurt you," he said, suddenly hesitant.

"Aldebaran," Mu said, "Whatever you do, however you touch me, I know it will be good, because it will be _you_ doing it."

Aldebaran finally nodded, and went to him.

"Whatever you do will be good . . ." Mu had said, and it must have been true. Musical cries of pleasure and delight became urging and finally ecstasy as Aldebaran folded himself around his heart's desire. They ascended together, tenor and baritone blending as sweetly as he'd always imagined they would . . .

~ : ~

He sat on the floor, rocking. Everyone had seen that Mu was in his deepest heart of hearts – just after they had all seen that he was not in Mu's. Of course he would once again be a laughingstock, the fodder for endless lovesick cow jokes, but what the higher Houses saw or thought did not phase him. What made him cringe was the worry that Mu had seen it as well. Could they remain friends after this?

Really, more than anything, he wanted to go back to the dream. He had never been so happy, even on the day he had won his Cloth.

He didn't hear the soft step.

"Aldebaran?"

He looked up miserably, as if he had been caught in a horrible crime.

Shaka of Virgo stood over him. Uncharacteristically, his turquoise eyes were open and his hand was offered. As Aldebaran stood Shaka stated, "You hid from me before."

It didn't really seem to be a question - and at any rate Aldebaran had no answer, so he looked at the floor.

"Aldebaran, I had strange dreams last night," Shaka began. "In the first, we Gold Saints were all bound in a chamber. The Queen of the demons said she was there to collect our seed. Then she transformed her shape and had sexual congress with the Saints in the first five Houses. Before she came to me I fell into a second dream," here Shaka's voice faltered the slightest bit, "an erotic one, yet when I woke there was none of the aftermath that follows such dreams."

Aldebaran looked up, astonished. "I, I _also_ dreamt of a chamber, and a demon." He added after a pause, "and intercourse."

"In my dream of the chamber, She took the form of the Dragon Saint and lay first with Mu."

"You," Aldebaran said, surprised, "you dreamt that as well?"

Shaka didn't answer this question, but pressed on. "And your experience with the succubus?" Shaka asked. "Was yours, like mine, a dream within a dream?"

"I do not remember that She came to me," Aldebaran said slowly, "After seeing what she did to Mu, I was suddenly awake in a different place and I . . . " He broke off.

"In my dream of the chamber," Shaka said, "I saw the demon transform into Mu for you. Tell me, in your dream, were you with Mu?"

Aldebaran nodded, but became very interested in the shadows in a far corner of the room.

Shaka said with unexpected gentleness, "Taurus Saint, there is no shame. Most of us could see how you felt years before She came."

"That obvious?" The wide brown face turned back with a small grin.

"Such a strong love is always visible."

Aldebaran relaxed a bit, shrugged, and said wryly, "To all but the beloved, I think."

"Yes that is often the case," Shaka said. His voice seemed sad.

"So, as in the folktales, the female demon came in the night, and took our seed while we slept. Why?" Aldebaran asked. "And how could you and I share a dream?"

"I do not know," Shaka said. "It required great power to enter our dreams. It may portend a great evil."

"What can we do then? To prepare for this evil?" Aldebaran's training as a Saint was reasserting itself. He stood tall and solid as Gibraltar again, no longer huddled inside of himself like a whipped dog.

Shaka walked to the doorway that faced the Aries Temple. "First, we must find the others and see if their experiences were the same as ours. That may also prevent any more damage from being done."

"Damage? What do you mean?"

"Aldebaran," Shaka said in an unusually gentle voice, "You have been sequestered since this happened, have you not? Unwilling to face the others?"

At the guilty silence from the Taurus Saint Shaka continued, "As I thought." He put his hand on the door frame, as if to steady himself, and said, "I also felt great distress since I woke from my dream, and . . . have had difficulty venturing from my Temple."

At this personal admission from the usually standoffish Virgo, Aldebaran instinctively took a step forward, but then thought better of it.

Shaka turned back to him and said, "And as I walked down I met no one in any of three Temples I passed though. If an enemy were to appear, are we fit to meet it?"

Aldebaran nodded. "I see."

"This unexpected attack could tear our brotherhood of Saints apart. We need to recover and rebuild our bonds quickly so that we may work together again if more attacks come. And in doing that we may yet discover Her purpose."

"What can I do?"

His eyes closed now, Shaka gestured to the stairs that led down to the Aries Temple. "Mu needs your friendship now, and the example of your strength. Gather him, search out the others, offer what assistance you can, then proceed to the steps of Athena's Temple."

"And you?"

"I will go and see who else I can chase out of hiding."

* * *

- To be continued -


	4. Gemini Saga

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

First posted in 2005.

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Seed, Chapter 3: Saga/Kanon  
**_by Silverr_

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Pain. Pain and complete darkness.

His shoulders were on fire, the muscles shredding from the strain of being suspended in mid air by manacles that bit into flesh rubbed raw by iron. The pain was almost enough to distract him from the maddening thirst. His tears – and he had licked at every one that had come near his mouth – had long since run out; his swollen tongue had dried to the roof of his mouth. Food was a distant memory.

The heavy collar around his neck negated his cosmo, and so he could not break his chains: neither could he heal his broken ankle, his fractured ribs, or the lash marks on his back and legs. An advantage, really: the caked, dried blood seemed to keep him warmer than the few shreds of clothing he had left.

He deserved every moment of this torture, welcomed it almost. He hoped that it would burn the guilt out, burn the dark side of him out, the side that had done such evil. Caused so many deaths, so much pain. For that, they would not let him die. For that, he would not let himself die.

A spasm of self-hatred racked him, and he uttered a strangled, animal cry. Anyone who heard it would have been moved. Anyone who heard it would have felt their heart break at the absolute misery it contained.

But no one heard it.

Time … passed. Then a noise, so unexpected and strange that it took him minutes to decipher it.

Someone was pounding against the stone walls that entombed him. He could hear heavy blows against the rock, feel the vibrations in the air and through his chains. Grit sifted onto his face. Finally a block high on one wall broke free, the dim light it let in blinding in the moments before it crashed against him and darkness returned.

~ : ~

Pain. Pain and warmth.

His body was on fire, screaming from the change of position. His arms were at his sides. Someone was holding him.

He opened his eyes and met a bright blue gaze framed by cobalt hair.

"Brother." He saw a flask, heard a voice say, "Drink, but slowly."

Water trickled past his cracked, swollen lips, moistened a throat unable to swallow. He coughed; strong arms held him, gave him more to drink. Finally, he was able to push out a single anguished word. "Why?"

"Because, my other half," his brother said with absolute love, "I am incomplete without you."

"How can you take me back? After what I did? After what I became, have become?"

In answer, hands moved to take away the filthy rags, to bathe him, to feed him, to heal him: and then his brother shed his garments too, so that they might be as mirror reflections. They lay on their sides in opposite directions, and reached for each other, moving in unison, without need for words, needing and giving identically, until at last they merged into one desire.

"Kanon …"

"Saga … "

And because he loved him, and they were one and the same, he could no longer hate himself. They reached for each other and embraced tighter and tighter, until the boundaries of flesh were discarded, until a light beyond light sprang up between them and they merged into one flesh, one mind, one soul . . .

~ : ~

Someone was shaking him. He looked up into blue eyes, but they were the wrong blue, framed by hair like the sun.

"I was being punished. He freed me," he said in a broken voice. "He accepted me, and we became one."

"Your deepest wish," Shaka said quietly to the man curled on the floor of Gemini temple.

"Yes," the Gemini Saint said, and covered his face with his hands. "I never realized before how much . . . . I need to go back. If I sleep, will I return to that dream?"

"You cannot allow it," Shaka said.

"Why?" Gemini's tear-streamed face was bewildered.

"We need you here, with us."

"How can you possibly ...?"

"Your divided soul is is the source of your light as well as your darkness. Your strength is shown by your struggle against weakness."

He looked up. "So the other - was a dream. Meaningless. Worthless. Unreal."

"There are many apparent realities," Shaka said calmly. "Each with its own treasures and torments."

"But none of them are real," the Gemini Saint said. "Isn't that what you believe? All of existence is illusion. _Maya._"

"Yet even an illusion can illuminate a truth." Shaka put his fingers to his throat and touched a piece of fabric tucked almost out of sight inside the collar of his Cloth. "Or perhaps _maya_ is itself an illusion ... perhaps _all_ existences are real." He shook his head. "But this is not the time for metaphysica. We must look for the others. Will you stay with us and help?"

The man on the floor thought for a long time, but finally he nodded, and stood, and stayed.

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_~ to be continued ~_


	5. Butterflies

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

_Seed_ was first posted in 2004-2005.

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**Seed, chapter 5: Butterflies  
**_by Silverr_

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Aldebaran's size – the tallest and heaviest of the Gold Saints – made him one of the physically strongest, but perhaps it was his ability to laugh at himself that was his most important asset. As he descended the stairs to Aries Temple, he addressed the butterflies in his stomach. "My little friends, I already know the saying, 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' so there is no need to keep tickling me." He wondered where Mu might be hiding. He knew the rooms of the Aries Temple pretty well, having been its caretaker in Mu's absence, but he got no chance to use that knowledge.

Mu was sitting, dressed in his Cloth, in his favored spot on a wide stone windowsill at the front of his Temple. His vantage point gave him a sweeping view down over the Coliseum and the city below. His posture was casual, one leg drawn up, his fist on his knee. He turned at Aldebaran's step.

"Aldebaran." The voice, which usually held genuine affection when speaking to his friend, was noticeably subdued. There were faint hollows under his evasive eyes.

Aldebaran, unsure of the best way to begin, decided to just plow in. "Shaka sent me to find you. He wants us to gather together at Athena's Temple. Talk about what happened to us. Figure out why the Demon Queen came to us, what Her purpose is. Plan our defense."

Mu blinked in obvious surprise, then nodded. "I see. So I was not the only one who had a strange night?"

"No," Aldebaran said, "it seems not."

"Even though I knew it wasn't real, I didn't care," Mu said softly as he turned to look out the window again, "I have never been touched that way. With such passion. I had no idea it could be so - " His knuckles were white. "All from a demonic illusion."

Aldebaran wanted to gather Mu up, comfort him, perhaps even express his feelings as he had in his dream ... but he was well aware that the Mu of his dream had not been the real Mu. And yet … "You will experience passion," Aldebaran finally said with a burst of courage. "I'm sure of it."

Mu turned to him. "And you, how are you so sure of that?"

"Because," Aldebaran swallowed, "because I'm sure many wish to be your lover."

Mu looked at him steadily now, without shock or disgust. "Many?" he asked.

"Certainly," Aldebaran said heartily.

To Aldebaran's relief, Mu looked down and changed the subject. "How did your first dream begin? As mine did, with Saints in a chamber, prisoners?"

"Yes. Shaka and I both had that beginning."

"Shaka dreamt as well?" Mu almost smiled. "And after your illusions were completed? Did you return to the chamber?" Mu asked.

"No," said Aldebaran, "I woke in my bed."

"As did I. But I do not think they were dreams," Mu said firmly, "or, if they were dreams, I do not think that any of us have awakened yet."

"What do you mean?" Aldebaran asked, puzzled.

"Because," Mu said, lifting away the shoulder and chest pieces of his Cloth, "It is the only way I can think to explain this." Mu's pale throat and chest were marked with bite marks, scratches, and bruises, and his shoulders were stained with butterfly scales. "If I am awake now, then how is it I bear marks from my dreams?"

_._

_~ Next chapter: Deathmask of Cancer ~_

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A thank you to my stalwart reviewers **The Love Bug** and **Vincentre**: I know these early chapters have been short, but take heart - the next 5 are all rather long. :)


	6. Cancer Deathmask

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

_Seed_ was first posted in 2004-2005.

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**Seed, chapter 6: Deathmask  
**_by Silverr_

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Angelo brushed the dead woman's hair meticulously, smoothing down the strands with his hand. When he was satisfied he applied rose oil to her hair, face, ears, and throat, giving extra care to the lips, nose, and corners of the eye. He always kept the nails on his ring finger and pinky extra short for this purpose, having decided long ago that brushes were far inferior to his sensitive fingertips. Too much oil and the details blurred; too little and sticking ruined the texture of the final.

He liked using his hand instead of a trowel to apply the plaster as well, partly because he liked the precise control he had over the application, and partly because he always started to get hard as soon as he reached into the creamy white mass, slippery and slick and slightly resistant against his palm, oozing between his fingers as he squeezed ...

After the first layer of plaster was applied he wiped his hands, then carefully laid a lattice of thin silk cords into the plaster, biting his upper lip between his teeth in concentration. Without being anchored into the plaster, the lattice would not stay spread out as the second layer of plaster was applied, but push it down with too much pressure and boom! the first layer of plaster would shift and deform. After making sure the ends of the cords trailed off the edge of the mask precisely, without tangles, he carefully pressed the knots at the intersections down, then applied the second layer of plaster.

He sat back on his heels. Should he do her hands too? No, not today: it was a pain in the ass to pose the fingers and hold them in place until rigor mortis set in, and he just didn't want to go through the bother.

Especially when the plaster seemed the perfect consistency for something he'd always wanted to try.

"Don't go anywhere," he muttered with a grin to the masked corpse as he stood. He wiped the quickly-drying plaster from his hands and unzipped his leather pants slowly, deliberately teasing himself. He stepped out of his pants, kicked them aside, then stripped off his low-slung briefs, already damp with precum. He leaned back against the pillar then slid down to the floor, lightly stroking himself. He was glad he'd taken the time to shave his pubes the day before; time-consuming but worth it. The doing and the results. The ritual, the lather, the little kick of using a straight razor.

He reached over to his supply tray and picked up a bottle of myrrh-scented oil. For a minute he was tempted to just go with an oil jerk – but no, he really was in the mood to try this other thing and now was a good time, before hair started to grow back. He slathered on some oil, took a length of silk cord which he tied around his cock and balls with a quick-release knot, then pulled the basin of plaster close, scooped up a handful, and started to sheath his erection in a shiny white shroud.

The first wave of pleasure came from the idea of what he was doing. The same plaster that was on the dead woman face's was on his dick, and that connection gave him a rush. Like coming on her face, without actually having to _look_ at her face. The second wave came from the feel of the cool plaster against his hot skin. The third came from the increasing tightness as his cock continued to swell, and the pressure built in his balls.

As he waited for the plaster to set he surveyed his gallery. Lit by slanting sunlight, everywhere he looked was three-dimensional evidence that he was far more of a man than any other Saint. Certainly better than soft-spoken pussies like Mu and Shaka, who'd probably break a nail if they ever had to kill anyone. Better too than that goody-two-shoes Leo pretty boy with his holier-than-thou attitude. And better even than prancy smart-asses like Milo, the ones who got the glamor jobs that everyone talked about … sure, they got the high-profile assignments, waltzing in and blasting islands, but he was the one Saga had been relying on for years for the clandestine stuff, the one who could handle the tough assignments – women, kids, graybeards, families – discreetly and with no fuss. He was the only one who got every single job done, without special roses or swords or beads: he was a one-man express train giving out free tickets to Hades. He was the one Saga picked. Him, Angelo.

And why?

Because he was stronger than any of the others. Those long-haired princesses liked to talk about being "knights" and "Saints" and took the moral high ground, as if they weren't killers just like he was. As if their well pounded come-glazed shit didn't stink. What a crock. He wasn't a Saint or a knight, wasn't holy or noble. He was a _soldier_. Soldiers didn't need a "feminine" side, or ethics, or conscience, or any of that other femmy bullshit. Soldiers should be pure man, like he was, but no one else besides Saga had the balls to gouge and burn and stamp out their weakness like he had. Sanctuary was full of useless posers. Every mask on his wall was proof that he was a hundred times better than they were, but they still treated him like a criminal.

He'd like to ream every one of them until they screamed for mercy.

Twisting the now hard plaster slightly to loosen it, he slipped down to lie on his side and started angrily fucking the cast. It was like banging a stone hole, abrasive and unyielding enough to be exciting but not painful enough to stop him – and somehow, in his own head, the others were responsible for this too, that he was laying on a cold stone floor sticking his dick in a tube instead of in a nice warm bed screwing a nice warm hole.

When he simply couldn't take it any more he pulled the string and came.

"Fuck 'em all," he muttered drowsily, caressing his softened slippery flesh. "Zay'kin all go to hell." He smashed the plaster cast.

~ : ~

A footstep woke him.

It took him a minute to realize where he was, as he shook off the remnants of a half-remembered dream in which everyone was laying around in a big room getting their poles polished. He sat up.

It was dark and cold in his temple now. He held himself still and listened, and the noise that had awakened him came again, a clatter as if large and small pieces of something brittle were falling on the floor.

Pieces.

Or shards.

Like dried plaster.

A single shaft of pure fear lanced through him, but he quickly got hold of himself and stood, lithe and tense. He pulled a torch down and lit it, then stood, listening.

Silence.

He placed the torch in the bracket and the sound came again. His head snapped in its direction.

From the far ends of the corridors that intersected in the center of his temple came soft rustlings, small murmurings and scrapings, and random detonations of sound as more shards hit the floor and shattered.

He waited, and faces began to emerge from the shadows into the torchlight.

He knew them of course, he knew every one, he had memorized every feature. He had spent hours looking at their masks.

They moved toward him slowly, as if shaking off sleep. Oddly, they didn't look menacing. In fact, they didn't even look dead. Had something brought them all back to life?

"Come near me and I'll kill all of you fuckers all over again!" he snarled, and dodged around the back of the pillar towards the doorway that led to his living quarters at the top of the temple.

A glint in his side vision stopped him. He had a collection of swords displayed on the wall next to the doorway. Katana, broadswords, claymores, bastards, cutlasses, fencing foils … He grabbed an ornate scimitar, then spun back to the crowd of his victims.

They were almost at the pillar now, the erratic torchlight showing that most were smiling at him, whispering, "It's alright" and other reassurances. The ones in the front (led by the woman he had just masked, whose hair was still neatly brushed and oiled) even held their hands out as if to calm him.

"Stay away from me!" he shouted, brandishing the sword.

The crowd stopped at his command.

He turned and dashed through the doorway, raced up the flight of stairs, then slammed the heavy door to his room shut and bolted it, his heart pounding.

Then he turned. In darkness of his room something was glowing.

Five steps led up to a dais with a throne. On the throne was a beautiful woman dressed in a long white gown. Her body was haloed with shimmering golden light.

"Who are you?" he demanded, "and why are you here?"

"You know who I am," Saori said.

"Well, why are you here?" Suddenly remembering that he was nude, he thrust out his crotch and swaggered toward her, tossing the scimitar aside with a clatter. "Or did you finally come to get a piece of a real man?"

"I'm glad you are able to be yourself with me, Angelo," she said again. "You can tell me what's on your mind, in your heart."

"Is that so? It's not really my mind that has something to say right now." He braced his hands on the arms of the throne, his hard-on hovering over her lap, and waited for her reaction.

"You are in such pain." Her face, so close to his own, remained calm and without reprimand. "I forgive you, because I know what drives you so." Her eyes were drawing him in, gentle, comforting.

"What is this shit?" he frowned, pushing away away from the throne a step. "There's nothing to forgive. I've done nothing wrong. The only thing that's driving me right now is this special present I have for you ..." but his bluster was running out.

"Do you know why you make masks of the people you kill?" she asked.

"My masks? Trophies. Reminders, so that no one around here will forget the jobs I've completed. The enemies I've disposed of. For Saga. For Sanctuary. For you," he said bitterly, turning his back to her.

"Do you know the original purpose of a death mask?"

"No, and I don't give a rat's ass." His flippant tone was forced. He descended a step, but waited.

"Death masks are made to honor the dead, to mourn the loss of a life by keeping the memory of the dead individual alive, preserving the details of their face and hands."

"That's not why I do it! I don't know who those people are, I don't care, and I like it that way." He descended another step. "I always do what I'm asked to do," he said angrily. "It's not my responsibility to go boo-hooing over strangers."

Her soft voice went on. "And for you the masks are also memorials to that part of _yourself_ that you have had to kill, over and over again, in order to keep convincing yourself that innocent women and children and old men are enemies of Sanctuary."

"That's, that's, bullshit," he sputtered, folding his arms.

"You celebrate your lack of heart, of conscience, but they are still there, Angelo, hidden within you, a little piece slipped into each mask you make. Don't you see? You make the masks as atonement, as a reminder to yourself that you have killed."

Deathmask sank down onto the bottom step. Her words continued to disappear into him like rain on the desert.

"But Saints are sworn to protect life, to take responsibility for every single being on the planet, and so you carry an infinite burden of grief for each life that you take."

Deathmask hugged himself tighter, and bent his head to his knees.

"You are one of my Saints, Angelo." He heard the rustle as she rose from the throne and came down the steps. "You always have been. You always will be." Her gown brushed his back as she sat beside him. "And so I know how much you care about them. I know that you mourn them. Every one."

He turned and looked at her. Her eyes were full of love and acceptance.

Angelo knelt and put his forehead on her feet, whispering in a broken voice, "Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me … "

"I have already told you," she said, "You are forgiven." She lifted his head, and the golden light that surrounded her seemed to flow around him as well, full of kindness and compassion and gentleness. She pulled aside the top of her gown and he was suddenly a child again, curled in her lap, and when she drew him to her breasts, warm with sweet milk, the bitterness inside of him rose and built until it exploded away in a torrent, like the seed that fell between his legs, spilling unnoticed. His hard nature melted, his resentment rinsed away like ashes in the rain ...

He was understood, he was redeemed, he was restored.

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_~ Next chapter: Rosebuds (Shaina and Marin) ~_


	7. Rosebuds

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

_Seed_ was first posted in 2004-2005.

This chapter is _yuri_, love and sexual expression between women.

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**Seed, chapter 7: Rosebuds  
**_by Silverr_

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"Shhhh! Can't you walk any quieter?"

"Oh stop being so paranoid, Marin. He only works in there early in the morning." Despite this, Shaina stepped off the paved path onto the grass, where her shoes made no sound. When they got to the greenhouse door they looked round to make sure they hadn't been seen, then slipped in noiselessly. They bent to unbuckle their shoes.

"How do you know he won't be here?" Marin asked. "Who else have you brought here?"

"You're so cute when you're jealous." Shaina tucked both pairs of shoes behind a small wheelbarrow near the door. "This way," she said, heading into the humid depths of the greenhouse.

"You didn't answer my question," Marin said, slightly annoyed.

"Who else would I be with?" Shaina teased without turning around.

Marin sighed. "I hate it when you answer a question with a question." She followed Shaina though the narrow, meandering stone paths that wove through the greenhouse, half-mesmerized by the hips swaying in front of her and the flashes of the exposed skin just below the right buttock. Thinking about the body underneath the skin-tight brown fabric – a body whose feel and taste she knew very well – set off a little burst of fireworks between her legs.

They came to a door. Shaina opened it noiselessly, listened, and then they entered a second greenhouse, less humid than the first but warmer, with supplemental lights for the mini-orchard of miniature fruit trees it contained. They hurried through and entered the third greenhouse, hot and steamy and dim with jungle plants and orchids.

"This is going to completely ruin my hair," Marin said.

"I like it that way, all frizzy and curly," Shaina said, then added saucily, "and _wooly_."

Marin shook her head.

The fourth and final greenhouse was the rose conservatory, which was connected to the Pisces Temple itself. A rose-scented mist hung in the warm air.

Marin looked at the trellises of white, red and black roses surrounding them. "Shaina, these are his Attack Roses … isn't it dangerous to be in here with so many of them?" She knew first hand how fast their deadly fragrance worked.

"No, Attack Roses only activate their poisons when picked," Shaina said absently. "Oh good, it's still here." She grabbed Marin's hand and pulled her down a path towards the side of the conservatory, where a long low table with pillows on one side and a guest futon on the other offered an island in the ocean of roses.

"And you know this how?"

"I went to one of those open houses he has," she said as she carefully picked three or four oversized, salmon-colored rosebuds from bushes next to the futon. "Since I was the only one who showed up, he gave me a personalized tour."

"I'll bet he did," said Marin, placing her mask on the table and beginning to untie her belt.

"Don't be a twat," Shaina said crisply, setting the rosebuds down then removing her own mask. "It was mostly boring. He went on and on about pH and mildew and mites and who knows what else. But he also mentioned that he was going home to Sweden this week to collect some new species, so I knew he wouldn't be here."

"Oh, you clever girl." Marin came up behind her, brushed the soft green hair aside, and nuzzled her neck.

"Yes, aren't I? That's why you love me," Shaina said, turning to wrap her arms around the redhead.

"That, and other reasons," Marin said. She traced the outline of Shaina's mouth with the tip of her tongue. Shaina's came out to meet it, but after a moment they both broke into laughter.

"And now, every time we do that, it always reminds me of - " Marin began.

" - snails fucking," Shaina finished.

They looked at each other, eyes sparkling, then the looks become more serious and hungrier as their mouths came together in a very un-snail like way. Both sets of hands were in constant motion over the familiar curves. Each unclasped the back of the other's breast plate, and then hands slid around and beneath the warm metal, cupping firm flesh though the damp fabric.

They pulled apart, impatient, pulled their Cloths and underclothes off, and came together again. Almost perfectly matched in height, their petal-soft nipples puckered instantly as they rubbed together. Shaina broke the kiss to nip and suck on Marin; Marin, for her part, just wanted to toss the other girl down and bury her face between her legs. She loved eating Shaina's pussy, every part of it, the taste, the smell, the way the wispy little hairs tickled her nose, and of course the noises Shaina made. The noises were the best part.

In fact …

She took one of her hands from Shaina's waist - which was so small that she could almost circle it with her fingers - and moved it down toward what she called the "landing strip."

"Oh no you don't," Shaina squawked, then backed away. "I have plans for you."

Marin raised her eyebrow. "And you're planning what exactly?" Her crotch gave an emphatic throb: Shaina's special plans were always memorable.

"Those." Shaina pointed to the rosebuds lying on the table.

The way she stood, so unselfconscious, trim and sexy against the backdrop of flowers and leaves, pert brown nipples, green hair almost glowing … she looked like something from myth, a tree-goddess or wood-nymph or something.

"Roses?"

Shaina put her hands on her hips. "Don't worry, they aren't Attack Roses. They're – well, you'll see."

"Hm, will I?"

"Enough talk." Shaina said firmly. She darted forward and threw an unresisting Marin down onto the futon. She straddled the redhead's hips, then sat on her. "Now lie still. Keep your hands over your head. Understand?"

At Marin's nod, Shaina rubbed her swollen sex luxuriously against her lover's prominent mons. "If you're good you can have a treat later."

Marin grumbled, "You little cheater."

Shaina panted and chuckled. "My game, my rules." She moved up a little bit, then leaned forward and cupped one hand around each of Marin's breasts. She gently kneaded them, running a thumb over the bulleted nipples, then pushed them close together so that she could lick both at the same time. She stroked and kissed and gently teased with her tongue and fingers and fingernails until Marin was squirming beneath her, hands gripping the top edge of the narrow futon. Shaina gave her a long, fierce kiss that left them both breathless. "I think you're ready."

Marin's only response was a glare, half furious, half pleading.

The green-haired girl gave another lewd wiggle as she pressed against Marin's stomach, then reached over to the table and took one of the plum-sized rosebuds. She stroked it over her own, then Marin's lips, then kissed her again: rose-scented sweetness this time. She drew the sides of the velvety, salmon-colored bud along the line of Marin's jaw, down over her throat, between her breasts (taking a quick detour to polish each nipple with softness) ... she slid further down Marin's body so that she could use the rose to caress her firm stomach. The blue-eyed Saint sucked in her breath and broke out in goose bumps as a zigzag trail wended across the concave hollow of her pelvis, backtracked for a silken twirl in her navel, then traced the thin treasure trail of fiery red down to the fluffy patch of her pubic hair.

Marin was twitching. "Damnit, Shaina, get to it!"

"I thought eagles were supposed to be patient," Shaina purred.

"No that's _turtles_," Marin said with a strangled laugh.

Shaina moved back more so that she could stroke Marin's thighs with the rosebud, letting the tip barely tickle the outside of the other girl's sex. Marin tried to move her legs apart, but they were trapped by Shaina's knees. She growled and clenched her fists in frustration.

Shaina finally stood and moved to the side, grinning at how quickly Marin's knees came up and she splayed wide. As she knelt back down between her legs Shaina's mouth watered at the sight of her lover's womanhood, the outer folds parted just enough to expose the swelling inner lips, fluted like dark pink rose petals. With an evil smirk she begin stroking the tip of the rosebud lightly along the opening. Soon the feathery touch had Marin fully aroused, her sex like a succulent alien orchid, the swollen hood over her clit revealing a glimpse of the sensitive nub within. Shaina edged the ruffled tip of the rosebud under the little cowl and twirled it by the stem. Marin groaned and pushed against the stimulation, craving more.

Shaina too had had just about enough. She broke off the stem, then held the base of the bud tightly and pressed it deep into Marin's slick passage, burying her fingers entirely. After a few slow thrusts she curved her middle finger so that the knuckle would rub Marin's clit every time. When she knew Marin was almost at the brink she stopped, pulled the rosebud out, and sucked the rose-and-Marin-flavored juices from the petals. "Mmmmm, tasty."

"You are such a pervert," Marin groaned.

"And you like it that way," Shaina said mischievously. She ran the rosebud around the edges of the inner lips.

The sight of the creamy body quivering and arching had sent jolt after jolt of electricity to Shaina's crotch, so she was close to orgasm herself. She slipped her hand between her legs, but in an instant Marin sat up and grabbed her wrist.

"Uh-uh, you little snake. Save it for me."

"Oh, all right," Shaina said in mock irritation, shaking Marin's hand off and giving her luscious breast a quick caress before pushing her back down.

Then she sat back and spread her own legs on top of Marin's to hold her down while she set out to finish the torture. She began a rhythm of deep thrusts followed by a slow circuit of the labia. After a dozen repetitions of this Marin was moaning and bucking wildly; finally she came, swearing a blue streak between clenched teeth as she flooded Shaina's hand with her juices.

As she lay there panting she opened one eye. "What kind of roses did you say those were?"

"Edible ones," Shaina said, sliding the bud in her mouth and biting the petals off just short of the calyx. "Your turn!" She chewed, grinning.

The two girls fell in each other's arms, laughing. They were making so much noise that they didn't hear the door from Pisces Temple open.

.

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_~ Next chapter: Aiolia ~_


	8. Leo Aiolia

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

_Seed_ was first posted in 2004-2005.

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**Seed, chapter 8: Aiolia  
**_by Silverr_

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He didn't dream anymore.

He wasn't sure if he ever had, even as a child, since he had no memories of Before. Certainly in all these years since losing Aiolos he hadn't, except for the rare times when he woke screaming in the darkness from a vision of being buried alive.

He almost remembered this one, though: there had been a powerful sensation of thrill and release, though he couldn't recall any details or images. Not that it mattered: he had awakened dry and flaccid. _Denied even in my dreams_, he thought bitterly as he threw the blankets aside and rolled out of bed. A look at the clock made him scowl. That couldn't possibly be the right time.

Not that there was much to get up for these days, anyhow.

He felt odd, restless and disoriented, his whole body buzzing. It was like the aftermath of the one and only time he'd been drunk. Perhaps routine would help. He dropped to the floor, did a hundred push-ups, then took a shower. None of this cleared his head or settled him, so he decided to get out, take a walk down to the Coliseum. He could spar with some trainees, get his blood moving, perhaps burn off some of this restlessness. He dressed in light training clothes then stepped outside.

The weather was strange. The sky had the leaden, greasy brightness that usually came with partial eclipses. A hot, humid pre-storm wind pushed at him as he ran down the stairs toward Cancer.

The inside of Deathmask's Temple was cool and still. "Angelo?" he called. "It's Aiolia, passing through."

"Hey." The Cancer Saint, dressed only in sweatpants, stepped from a doorway near the intersection of the two long passageways that made up his X-shaped temple. "Man, what a night! What wild dreams!"

"Oh?" Aiolia responded politely. He had no interest in chit-chatting with this particular neighbor, who he disliked, but he always tried to be civil for at least few minutes.

"You slept late too, eh? Me, I spent all morning and half this afternoon replaying mine and getting off all over again. What a kick!" He adjusted his crotch and yawned, stretching his arms over his head.

"I see."

Angelo grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "Aw, lighten up, kid. You know what you need? Get laid. Or at least get a blow job. There's nothing like a well-sucked dick." He leered. "They don't call it an 'attitude adjustment' for nothing."

Even though he usually ignored the crudeness, today, for once, Aiolia didn't turn away. "What are you suggesting? That I go to a prostitute? You know that's forbidden."

Angelo snorted. "Like anyone around here ever follows that rule."

"I do," Aiolia said stiffly.

"Hey, your choice," Angelo shrugged. "But if you ever change your mind, go talk to Milo. He'd let you put it on his Frequent Fucker's account with the Daughters." He laughed at the look on the Leo Saint's face. "And, hey, if you don't want to go to a hooker you could probably find someone around _here_ to help you out. Though the Silver Cunts are dykes, so don't sniff there."

Aiolia knew what was being insinuated. He overheard things from time to time that led him to believe that there were sometimes brief liaisons between various Saints. "I don't – "

"No, of course not," Angelo drawled, his eyes sliding over Aiolia in a way that made the brown-haired Saint wish he didn't have to pass through Cancer Temple ever again.

Deathmask smiled lazily, then turned away from Aiolia and re-entered the doorway he'd emerged from earlier. "Hey, I've been wanting to ask you your opinion," his voice echoed out into the corridor.

Aiolia shook off his other thoughts and followed him, putting on an attentive face. "About what?"

Deathmask reappeared with a scimitar, which he carefully replaced in an empty spot in the weapons display next to the doorway. "I've been taking a poll. What do you think is the best way to wipe a family? Kids first, or parents?"

Aiolia felt the buzzing in his body increase, as though he were filled with locusts and wasps. He stared at Deathmask: a _poll_? The Cancer Saint couldn't possibly be serious.

"I think it makes it easier to do the kids first ... "

A cold sweat surged over him, like a river suddenly flowing in reverse.

" ... since that makes the parents give up hope. The fight goes out of 'em. You can do the wife without too much trouble." Angelo turned and grinned. "Though it is more fun when they fight." His face seemed to be all leering teeth and bulging eyes, and as he walked past Aiolia towards the center of his temple, the ceiling, walls and floor framed him with the grotesque proof of his kills.

Aiolia stood, staring ahead of him at Deathmask's weapons, glinting in the shadows, and thought: _Here is a man who is allowed to kill with impunity. He celebrates his bestial, amoral side, is rewarded for it in fact, while I, always treading on the side of right, have been treated like a traitor, a pariah, an outcast._ _In what universe is that fair?_

The numb, buzzing sense of disconnection that had been with Aiolia since he woke rose up inside him in a roar of black wind and obliterated thought and reason: he reached for one of the broadswords on the wall and a moment later Deathmask's head rolled on the floor with his other trophies, the mouth stretched in a yawn (or maybe it was a scream? No matter ... ) The body collapsed, pulsing blood from the headless neck.

Aiolia stood, wide-eyed, panting, staring at the sight. Shame rose up on a column of nausea, but was instantly wiped out by an exhilaration stronger than any orgasm he'd ever experienced.

He was free.

He nodded in satisfaction, tossed the broadsword next to Deathmask's corpse, and began his descent to Gemini Temple.

~ : ~

Saga was in an alcove near the entrance of his temple, reading and signing a stack of papers. He looked up in surprise. "Aiolia."

"Saga." Aiolia had no idea what to do next, but habit took over. "What are you working on?"

Saga rubbed his eyes and gave a wry smile. "Editing my will, actually."

_Good. You'll need one._

"I decided to put my brother back in, after all these years."

Aiolia looked at the floor to hide the fury that flooded him. _How wonderful that you have that luxury, Saga. Do you have any idea how many thousands of times I've bargained with God to let _my _brother come back to _me_?_

"Aiolia …"

He looked up. Saga had put the papers down and stood to face him.

"I owe you an apology."

Aiolia waited, carefully masking the emotions roiling inside of him.

Saga continued, "I don't know what I could ever do, what sort of suffering I could undergo, that would make up to you for the loss of your brother. I suppose nothing ever could . . . " His voice trailed off and he looked away.

Outside, a low rumble of thunder pummeled the landscape.

"You're really into that, aren't you?" Aiolia said coldly.

Saga's eyes snapped back to him, but he said nothing.

"In fact, I'll bet you have fantasies of being chained up and punished for all your sins." Aiolia, whose senses now seemed to be almost super-humanly sensitive, noticed that the blue-haired man's nostrils had flared. Not with anger, with – excitement. "Or am I wrong?"

Aiolia stepped close to the motionless Gemini Saint and whispered savagely in his ear, "Is that what you'd like, Saga? If I hurt you? Perhaps while you were tied up and defenseless? Would you feel better about the past?" He could feel the electricity in the air, the crackle of ozone, as if the storm were drawing a bead on both of them.

"Yes," came the barely audible reply.

The lightening bolt hit. Aiolia's blood boiled away.

~ : ~

A hidden doorway led to shadowed stairs. They descended into blindness beneath Gemini Temple. A scratching sound; a match held to a candle. They had entered a place with walls of stone. A small table next to the wall held more candles. Saga lit another, then another. He pulled a large iron lever set into the wall above the table; the door at the top of the stairs closed.

Saga carried one of the candles across the room and used it to light more candles set on a second table. Now Aiolia could see that on the wall next to where Saga stood chains ran though heavy iron rings in the wall. The chains (which looked so heavy that it would take a strong man just to lift them) were attached to leather-lined manacles.

When Saga stepped away from the second table and unblocked the light Aiolia saw the rest of it.

In the center of the room was a strange apparatus that looked like a gymnast's balance beam sawn in two. One large and one small iron cuff were bolted to each piece. Without ever having seen such a thing before Aiolia know that the chains and beam were for some sort of sado-masochistic activity.

The fact that such a room existed in Sanctuary made Aiolia's stomach knot in anger.

Saga was disrobing, carefully avoiding meeting Aiolia's eyes as he made a neat pile of clothes on the floor. There was nothing seductive or erotic about what he was doing, despite the superbly-toned body revealed. It was ... efficient. Businesslike. Once he was naked Saga silently crossed the room and began to push a massive handle of bent iron set into the floor beneath the manacles. The room filled with the protest of metal as hidden machinery went to work. The balance beams began to move as turntables they were attached to rotated in opposite directions until the beams were arranged in a V-shape.

Saga walked to the bar, sat on it, then stretched one leg out along each beam and slid them into the thigh and ankle cuffs. His movements had the fluidity of an often-practiced ritual. Aiolia watched, half contemptuous, half horrified, as Saga closed the cuffs, manacling himself to the beam.

"I'll need your help now," he said in a subdued voice. "You need to attach those to my wrists." He pointed to the chains on the wall in front of him.

The only sound in the dungeon was Saga's ragged breathing. Aiolia lifted the manacles – they looked well used – and as he approached Saga bent forward and stretched his arms out.

Eager for his punishment.

Aiolia felt disgusted, but also an hysterical urge to laugh. This, this – how could the Goddess have allowed someone like _this_, who used a bizarre device like this, to become Holy Father instead of his brother? Allowing all the contempt he felt to show on his face, he attached the irons to Saga's wrists.

"Turn the crank until I say 'stop,' " came the whispered command of the leader of Sanctuary.

Aiolia turned the crank. The chains kept Saga's arms and upper body tautly in place as the angle of the V widened, spreading his legs wider and wider as the beams went back to their initial position.

"Stop."

Saga was now stretched into a grotesque T shape, face-down, most of his body suspended in mid-air. Immobilized and completely aroused, quivering with anticipation. "Do whatever you want to do to me," he said. "Hurt me. I can take it." He added, almost pleading, "I _need_ it."

_Anything that happens here has nothing to do with me,_ Aiolia realized with sudden chill certainty. _Or my brother, or atonement. _Saga's words had been misdirection, served up to seduce Aiolia into doing this obscene service for him. But this didn't make him angry: on the contrary, the thought of ramming into Saga, perhaps making him cry out in pain, was becoming more and more appealing. Aiolia walked slowly around the body – the candlelight highlighting muscles already corded and twitching with strain – and thought of all the misery this man had caused him. All the years of taunts and ostracism. The loneliness. The constant feeling that no matter how good he was, no matter how hard he tried, no one would ever give him a chance because he was somehow tainted. And not just him. What about the other Saints, decent men – no, mere children – who had been slowly twisted over the years into inhuman monsters under the weight of following Saga's commands? Commands that included killing innocent people, good people.

People like his brother.

He felt another vibration of thunder shake the building from the storm outside. It seemed apt, echoing the whirlwind inside of him, the howling, poisonous snarling that he had struggled for years to contain as it putrefied and rotted out every chance for joy, for pride, for contentment, for peace.

But now, finally, it had broken free.

Aiolia went to the corner by the door and removed his clothes, then began to fire his cosmo as he walked back into position. He stood behind Saga and put his left hand on the hard-muscled flank. The blue-haired man trembled and let out a sigh, as if he had been holding his breath.

This was the man who had tried to kill Athena, sent assassins after his brother, dragged that brother's reputation through the dirt, corrupted good men, ordered the murder of innocents – and who now expected to receive sexual pleasure in the guise of "punishment"? If that was what a Saint – no, the leader of Saints in fact – had permission to do, then either he, Aiolia of Leo, was not fit to be a Saint – or he was the best of them.

So be it. Aiolia gathered his cosmo. "Lightening Plasma," he whispered, then, his left hand still on Saga's hip, he clenched his right hand into a fist, punched his arm into Saga past the elbow, and ripped out a handful of entrails.

~ : ~

No one would have recognized the creature that came out of Gemini Temple as the once noble Leo Saint. Naked, covered with blood, the right arm smeared with excrement and draped with ragged strips of tissue, it looked feral, barely human.

But it was the narrowed eyes that were the most frightening. They were demonic, blazing with a rage that had been distilled by years and years of repression and slander.

It turned its head and looked down the stairs, breathing deeply as though scenting prey.

Taurus. Taurus lived there. Taurus was kind.

Below Taurus was Aries. Aries didn't like the Holy Father either.

They could live for now.

It turned and looked up the hill.

Cancer.

Leo.

Virgo.

Libra.

Scorpio.

Sagittarius …

It started up the stairs.

~ : ~

Cancer Temple smelled of blood. There was a kill here.

It padded through the sticky black pool, then stopped to urinate on the headless body, as pale and chalky now as the masks on the wall.

A flash to the side. A sword. A sword was good. It took the sword.

Running up the stairs to Leo, the bloody footprints were smudged by gusts of cold raindrops and hail. The stinging ice barely registered. All it could think of now was grabbing a handful of golden hair, snapping a neck, carving a red smile into a perfect throat.

The inside of Leo Temple was dark and warm and it stopped, disoriented. What was this smell? Familiar but perplexing: oiled leather and rust, flowers and honey, sweat and rain.

Fear and confusion boiled up and then drained away, leaving Aiolia exhausted. He staggered and leaned against the wall.

A motion across the passage caught his eye. There, in that doorway – a demon. Covered in blood, holding a sword. Was Sanctuary under attack? He made a motion toward it, and it mirrored him move for move.

_Reflection_.

He looked down at his arm, streaked to the bicep with shit and entrails, his hand varnished with dried blood, holding a sword.

What had he done?

_Deathmask._

He dropped the sword.

_Saga._

His eyes widened in horror. He had –

A sour taste climbed in his throat. He couldn't shut out the images. Saga's body convulsing, joints dislocating from the violence of the death-throes, blood and slippery intestines pouring out and splashing against his belly and feet. Deathmask's head lying in the pool of blood like a hideous cameo.

He had killed them.

He dropped to his hands and knees, vomited a watery stream, and continued to gag and dry heave until his throat felt raw.

_If thy hand offend thee . . ._

He reached blindly for the sword, brought the blade down on his left forearm with all his might.

Too close to the hilt. He had cut to and cracked the bone, but his hand was still attached. In a blaze of absolute clarity he realized that there was no way to cut off both hands anyhow, and he laughed, a demented, hysterical sound that turned almost instantly to sobbing. How could he prevent himself from killing again?

He lifted the sword and pressed it against his neck, then drew it savagely across his throat, dimly registering that this is what he had planned to do to Shaka.

He didn't even feel himself hit the floor. _I'm coming, Aiolos_, he thought as the world faded. _After all this time, brother, I am joining you..._

_._

_~ Next chapter: Shaka ~_


	9. Virgo Shaka

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

Author's note: Make sure to have read the previous chapters (or at the very least Saga, Deathmask, and Aiolia) before reading this one.

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**Seed, chapter 9: Shaka**  
_by Silverr_

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In the grainy light, two figures entwined, a constant rustle of cloth as they moved against each other.

"Faster," one urged.

A low laugh from the other. "Why the hurry?"

"Afraid you'll change your mind."

"Still?"

A long pause, then -

"Never."

~ : ~

Battle outcomes are usually decided by a combination of luck, terrain, sheer numbers of bodies, and weapon technology, but sometimes they are decided by brief, intense moments.

This had been such a battle.

At first light he had ascended the hill in his war-chariot, the dawn at his back gilding his hair and armor. He had paused at the top of the hill, looking out across the enemy forces before him, a carpet of ants covering the hills and plains. Ten, perhaps 20 times as many men as he had, yet he had felt no fear.

When the enemy noticed him they halted their advance, and their commanders gathered together for conference. Behind him (out of sight and arrow-range) his troops held ten thousand breaths while his horses pranced in place, impatient for resolution.

It came. The generals dismounted, walked forward twenty paces to the base of the hill, and surrendered to him. It seemed that the sight of him alone had decided the battle, without a single drop of blood being shed. His standard bearers waved banners in a frenzy, his troops roared in triumph, "All Hail the Golden God-King, the Heir of Heaven! Praise to the White-Footed Monk, Shaka of the Radiant Lotus!"

The ride back to the palace took hours, Shaka's chariot threading carefully through the endless press of soldiers. Flower petals covered him like snow. Strange, that a battlefield could hold so many flowers.

When the palace and the royal avenue came into sight he was surrounded by crowds of women and children, courtiers, nobles, and soldiers too old to fight. Finally he reached the inner courtyard and made his way to where his attendants were waiting with fragrant oils and a steaming bath.

A short time later, arrayed in clean robes edged in gold, Shaka stood studying a map of his domains and allies as Venkatachalam arranged the golden armor upon its stand. Shaka knew full well that this world was an illusion, only a grain of sand in the path of the Buddha, yet he still allowed himself some pride at protecting the kingdom once again from the scourge of war.

As if to underscore the happiness of his subjects, laughter sparkled through the window. Shaka looked out and saw maidens gathered by the reflecting pool. They were passing around a small bowl. Each took a handful of something from the bowl, sprinkled it into the pool, then leaned close to the water. After a moment some cried out, some sighed, and others put their hands over their faces, giggling. One ran from the courtyard sobbing.

"What are they doing?" Shaka asked Venkatachalam.

The hawk-faced old soldier, who had begun drying Shaka's hair in a length of silk, stepped to the window and frowned. "I will send them away immediately."

"No," Shaka said, "I did not ask what should be done with them, I asked what they were doing."

"My lord," the old man said, "It is feminine foolishness. They close their eyes and pour fennel seeds on the water while thinking of the sort of man they wish to wed. They believe that when they open their eyes they will have a glimpse of their true love. Frivolous and wasteful!" he added indignantly.

"Is this so?" Shaka said with an indulgent smile. "Yet, it seems they receive a vision. Perhaps I should try this method to identify a future queen?"

Venkatachalam's face drew tight as his devotion to his king struggled with his disdain for female superstitions. In the end, of course, obedience won and he went to fetch a bowl of fennel seeds for his master.

Shaka entered the now empty courtyard, the sole witness to his whimsy now only a bird swooping from roof to tree and back again. He stood at the edge of the pool and closed his eyes, holding a handful of the aromatic seeds over the water. "I seek someone worthy to be my consort, of the highest character, devout, virtuous, circumspect, whose heart will see into none but mine."

A tingle swept across his body, and a stream of air brushed his face as if the bird had flown near. Shaka opened his hand to release the seeds, and after a moment he opened his eyes and looked down. In the pool was only his own reflection, blue-hued from the water, surrounded by a floating constellation of black stars.

He returned to his chambers. In his absence a meal had been laid out, but he was restless and had no appetite. Dismissing Venkatachalam, he began his evening meditation. Outside, unperceived, sunset drenched the empty courtyard in crimson. Just as the joyous red gave way to the smoke of twilight, the seeds in the pool glowed like sparks and vanished.

Shaka had only been meditating for an hour when there was a noise in the dark room behind him. He turned, a reprimand on his lips, but was stunned into silence. There was a presence in his rooms, a presence that seared his closed eyes like a blaze.

"Shaka." Her voice was liquid, profound. "We have manifested for you in physical form."

"Outward appearance is mere illusion," Shaka said, his voice calm despite knowing without a doubt that before him was no mortal woman. He moved swiftly from the chair to kneel. "Devi of the fire, flame and light, Shakti of Most Supreme and Exalted Wisdom, Prajapati, I offer myself in service to you."

"Is not Shaka eternally in service of wisdom?" she said. "Rise." She led him to the divan, then she sat next to him in a rustle of silk, her bracelets chiming. "We have heard Shaka's request for a consort."

Shaka frowned slightly. Surely a goddess would not condescend to matchmaking! Unless – perhaps she had a candidate for him? Semi-divine, of course, since it was likely that no human woman, no matter how noble born and spiritual, would be suitable.

"I am honored beyond measure," he said, bowing his head.

She said, "Tell me, Shaka, what does it mean that the Man Closest to God moves through this imperfect world with his eyes closed?"

"I seek truth beyond the illusions of this world."

"And what of Shaka?" she asked. "Is Shaka not of this world?"

"This world is transitory and false."

"That was not the question put to you," she chided.

"The Shaka before you is but an envelope of flesh, a brief container for that _atman_ which is _brahman_."

"Has this Shaka ever felt fear, or sorrow, or desire?"

"Yes, I have felt sorrow," he said. "Long ago I saw the suffering and pain of the world, and was filled with sorrow."

"And what was the result of that seeing, Shaka?"

"I came to know that suffering comes from the never-sated desires that tie man to the wheel of rebirth, and so I cleansed myself of all longings and delusions."

"And you became the man closest to god?"

"There is fault in that?" Shaka asked.

"Shaka." The warmth in Her voice tempered a tone of reprimand. "Have you not stopped at your own personal liberation, when you could be guiding others to freedom? In the search for perfection has Shaka not became a coffin holding only himself, when he could have become a mansion where others might find refuge and comfort and hope?"

Shaka, stunned, opened his mouth, but no words came to him.

"You have become a Bodhisattva of the mind, but to reach _nirvana_ you must also become a Bodhisattva of the heart. You must embrace humanity, beginning with your own." Unexpectedly, she then asked, "Shaka, if you opened your eyes now, tell me – what illusion would present to you?"

As he pondered this he heard faint sounds, as though his visitor was adjusting her jewelry and clothing.

In his mind's eye Shaka pictured a dark and beautiful woman, adorned with gold at ear and wrist and ankle. Black, doe-like eyes, a mouth like a rosebud, velvet brown skin, hair as dark as night, full breasts, a softly rounded belly, lush hips, and delicate feet, sitting in a _mudra_ of invitation to display her womanhood to him. An image of female perfection. An image which aroused no desire in him.

"Shaka, open your eyes," She commanded.

The goddess that faced him was in the position he had pictured, but she had skin like milk, long golden hair, and eyes as blue as turquoise. A fire blazed in Shaka, and he gasped as he realized that her face was his own.

Smiling, she opened his robes, put her legs over his and around his waist, then drew near to him until he was just parting her flesh, energy pulsing from the tip of his phallus into Her body.

"Shaka, the seeds upon the water showed you truly," She said, "_You are your own consort_, because you are in love with your own perfection."

Shocked, barely breathing, he could feel himself entering himself, like dipping a hand into a pool to clasp the reflection of the hand.

"The man closest to God is the man furthest from humanity, and furthest from the truth about himself as well" She continued. "Shaka must embrace Shaka, before moving beyond Shaka." A white explosion expanded from the point of their contact as she pulled him into her.

~ : ~

He awoke with a start, aware of his male organs, heavy and distracting.

He rose and settled himself in the center of the stone lotus to meditate on his vision. After an interval in the timeless Infinite he came to accept that, whatever the source, the vision had led him to truths about himself. That he thought no one worthy of himself but himself. That he was a man far from man. That he prided himself on this distance to such an extent that he saw himself an incarnation of pure Wisdom. How was it, he wondered, that, far from leaving his ego behind, he had blindly enshrined it? As he pondered this minutes, hours, perhaps days passed …

He snapped back to awareness suddenly. Something was terribly wrong in one of the temples below him.

He ran down the stairs toward Leo. Smells snaked around him before he even entered, smells of blood and excrement, choking him as he froze at the sight of a pile of flesh in a pool of black blood. Without the ray of sun that incongruously gilded the curly brown hair, Shaka never would have recognized the filthy, broken remains as Aiolia of Leo.

Not yet dead, but only moments away from it. Shaka cast off his Cloth, steeled himself against revulsion, and knelt by the body. Blood oozed sluggishly from a savage wound in the neck. Almost without thinking his hand went out, healing. Aiolia's spirit recoiled, trying to flee to the dark cavern of death, but Shaka was not ready to admit defeat. Keeping his hands on the slowly sealing throat he poured out his cosmo to augment the weak force still inhabiting the body. The nude form struggled, trying to push him away, and Shaka noticed the savage gash through skin and muscle and tendon that exposed shattered bones in the Leo Saint's left wrist. He felt a flare of anger. The throat, the hand – who or what had dared mutilate a Saint this way?

"Tell me who did this," Shaka demanded. "Tell me!'

Aiolia shivered convulsively, and Shaka realized that Aiolia could not be left this way; he must be bathed and made warm. He lifted the wounded Saint (suppressing his distaste as the soiled, bloody body came in contact with his white tunic) and went in search of the stairs.

Beneath Leo Temple – as beneath all the upper temples – there was a small hot spring-fed balineum. Wading into the pool, Shaka lowered Aiolia into the steaming water. No soap or washcloths in sight, so he let the water soak away the blood and filth while he concentrated on healing Aiolia's mangled wrist. When the body was clean Shaka sat on the pool's submerged steps, pulled the Leo Saint across his lap, and dipped the unresisting head back into the water, using his fingers to comb blood and offal from the hair.

The Leo Saint – who had been drifting in and out of consciousness – opened his eyes and stared at Shaka dully. After a moment he raised his uninjured hand and touched the stains on Shaka's now-sodden tunic, frowning.

"It is no matter," Shaka said brusquely. "As a child I swam in the Ganges, which at times made my clothing look far worse."

Aiolia's lids drooped, and he fell asleep. Shaka, having done as well as could be done, lifted him from the water and carried him up to his bed. After he had pulled the blanket over him Shaka opened his eyes and stood for a while watching the sleeping Saint, feeling an immense sense of accomplishment. Was this what the Devi of his vision had meant? Was this the way he could embrace all that was Shaka … by embracing all that was not-Shaka? Becoming a Bodhisattva of Compassion? Was the road truly so simple?

He turned away, stripping off his wet tunic. As he did so he noticed the movement of his reflection in a small shaving mirror.

_You are your own consort, because you are in love with your own perfection._

He looked down at the stained silk in his hands, a garment that would never be pristine again, and called the Virgo Cloth to him. Once clad, he decisively tore a wide strip from the center of the tunic, draped it around his neck, and then tucked it out of sight under the collar of his Cloth.

Thus arrayed, Shaka ventured forth in search of humanity.

~ : ~

Why did Sanctuary feel so deserted, as though all traces of Athena had been swept away? Had the others Saints fallen to the attacker that had ravaged Aiolia?

He reached out to Aries, toward Mu's cosmos, and felt it retreat, turbulent and in emotional pain. Shaka had no idea how to offer comfort, but he knew one who could. He searched Taurus Temple until he found Aldebaran hiding in a storeroom. As they spoke he began to have the stirrings of an idea, and by the time he had sent Aldebaran off to find and assist Mu it had taken shape. When he finally found Saga – the once proud Gemini Saint, cosmo cloaked, huddled and shivering in a dark corner – he knew that he was correct. Here was a man devastated after being faced with a need for re-integration with his dark half, just as Aldebaran and Mu had been ashamed after their hidden longings were revealed. Although the form of the demon had been different for each Saint, the result was the same. All three had been incapacitated by their visions.

Aiolia, though, had been attacked physically, and so might have more knowledge of what was attacking them. Shaka ran though Cancer, which still seemed to be empty, and back up to Leo.

Aiolia was awake. He beckoned Shaka close, then put his hand up to the Virgo Saint's throat. Some strong emotion gripped him: he took paper and a pencil from the nightstand, and wrote.

**I didn't kill you.**

"Obviously not," Shaka said.

**I killed the others.**

"Who?"

**Deathmask and Saga**_._

"Aiolia, that must have been part of your vision. I have seen Saga."

**Vision?**

"Yes. The dream-vision sent by the succubus, which showed us things we needed to see."

Aiolia laughed, ragged, harsh, eerily soundless. His sanity seemed fragile: his fingers were white as he wrote, almost tearing the paper. **What I wanted? I CHAINED HIM AND TORE OUT HIS INSIDES ! ! !**

"It may have been a strange vision, but consider the possibility that it showed you something you need admit to yourself. I have spoken to the others, and they also had – "

Aiolia shook his head and wrote rapidly.

**Theirs were different. Mu, Aldebaran, Saga, Deathmask, they all – **

Shaka pulled the paper away. "And do you think there was no more to it than that? What would the enemy gain by giving them pleasant fantasies?"

Aiolia glared at him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly, grudgingly conceding.

Shaka, however, was annoyed. "Since you were paying such close attention, did you see what the succubus became for me?"

Aiolia's eyes flicked upwards once, to Shaka's face, then he looked away. He shook his head.

"I encountered a simulacra of myself. The imagery led me to realize that I am full of unwarranted pride, blind to the truth that I am less than human."

Aiolia's head snapped up in surprise at this confession. With a sudden movement he was kneeling on the bed, gripping Shaka fiercely by the shoulder with his good hand, shaking his head NO NO NO emphatically.

"It serves no purpose for you to deny my deficiencies when I have accepted them," Shaka said flatly. He was taken aback by this physical contact, the strong fingers pressing into his arm. He had never been held by anyone, either in comfort nor desire. The sensation was strange.

Aiolia pulled back from him and studied his face, his green eyes glittering in the flickering lamplight. He seemed about to do something further when a voice broke in.

"Well, this is unexpected. Sorry to interrupt such a tender moment." Deathmask had entered the room, followed by Saga.

Aiolia tensed, ready to bolt.

Shaka said firmly. "Aiolia, as I told you, you did not kill them."

"What's his problem?" Deathmask said. His eyes darted from the naked Aiolia to the torn remains of Shaka's clothing, and a smirk began to spread across his face.

"He thought you were dead," Shaka said, resenting where he suspected Deathmask's thoughts had jumped.

"Funny, I don't feel dead," the Cancer Saint, rubbing his body with a swaggering, obscene gesture. "Aw, you're not telling me Mr. Goody-goody here – that was his fantasy? He could have screwed someone and he _killed_ people instead?" Deathmask shook his head. "Maybe he's my kind of guy after all."

"He could not admit to the rage he carries within him," Shaka said coldly. "What is it that _you_ cannot admit to?"

Deathmask's face clouded. "Fuck off, Shaka! I don't hear you asking Saga what HE dreamed about!"

"Because he already knows," Saga said, ignoring Deathmask's bluster as one would a child's tantrum. "Shaka, what next?"

"Continue on to Athena's Temple. We'll discuss this when we've gathered together."

"What about you?"

"I will follow with Aiolia."

"Have you seen Mu?"

"I sent Aldebaran to get him. I'm sure they'll be coming soon."

Deathmask laughed, "_Coming_? That's for sure, considering – "

Saga silenced him with a razor look, and they left. Aiolia glared at the empty doorway with disgust, his face lapped by shadows from the wavering lamp-flame.

"Calm yourself," Shaka said to him. "Just breathe." He put one hand over the closed – but still angry looking – gash on Aiolia's throat and with the other lifted the Leo Saint's injured wrist, continuing to concentrate healing energy into the tissues beneath. "Anger is pointless. It is his nature to say such things."

Aiolia nodded.

After several minutes Shaka noticed a fragrance gathering in the air. He inhaled deeply to find the source, then, puzzled, lifted Aiolia's hand and held it over his mouth and nose. Inside the cupped palm his breath was warm, and stirred the scent of fennel.

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_next chapter: Milo_


	10. Scorpio Milo

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

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**Seed, chapter 10: Milo**  
_by Silverr_

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Sanctuary was celebrating, for another Gold Saint had taken up residence: Aquarius Camus, newly returned after more than a decade at the Siberian training ground. He was a stranger to most of those who had grown up in the Temples, but those few that had known him as a child were not surprised that the silent, intense boy who nothing seemed to disturb had grown into a quiet, self-possessed man who radiated a sense of power and deeply-hidden emotion.

Milo observed him carefully. Besieged by admirers who seemed to ask for the same stories over and over, Camus was politely detached, as if he didn't care if there was anyone around him or not, as if he needed no one and nothing. This offhand arrogance was irritating in itself, but what annoyed Milo even more was how infatuated some people became with Camus, following him like seedlings bending to sunlight, shamelessly jockeying for chances to train with the Water-Bearer, sit next to him at meals, or follow him around like noisy puppies. Camus acted as if all this were completely ordinary, as if he were unaware of his effect on others.

Milo, suspicious by nature, quickly tagged Camus as dangerous. He didn't buy the newcomer's act for a second; it was clear that the apparent diffidence was a smokescreen to hide his real agenda – to assemble followers and build a position of power within Sanctuary. Milo knew he'd need more proof before he could go to the Pontifex, and so he continued to shadow Camus whenever possible, studying and analyzing his words and actions.

And then a truly unexpected thing began to happen.

Milo's suspicion toward Camus grudgingly began to fade because, despite his wish to believe otherwise, he began to feel that the Aquarius Saint was probably just what he seemed, an intensely private person without ambitions of any kind, as committed to Athena as any of them. This erosion occurred so gradually that Milo didn't realize until it was too late that other feelings had taken the place of mistrust. Unfamiliar feelings, so strong they were almost painful, that he couldn't put a name to and didn't know what to do with.

And that was not what he was used to. He had always been clear on which emotions and actions were appropriate for each person he came in contact with. For Athena and the Pontifex, absolute obedience driven by absolute reverence. Toward his enemies, an indifference that made wiping them away as easy as brushing away a fleck of dirt. For his fellow Saints, just enough knowledge of their personalities and fighting styles to allow him to work with them as an efficient team member. But Camus – Camus was somehow not like the other Saints. Any day Milo went without seeing him felt incomplete, yet whenever he did see him Milo was uneasy, on edge. He didn't understand why; all he knew was that he didn't like the feeling, and so avoided Camus as much as possible.

In the midst of this turmoil the Pontifex announced a welcome banquet for the recently returned Saint. As it was an official event, there was no question of not attending. When the day and hour arrived he forced himself to join the welcoming line. It moved slowly, as Camus and the Pontifex took their time with each person, so Milo had plenty of time to surreptitiously watch the Aquarius Saint. He was dressed in simple black clothes that contrasted with the colorful costumes of the other guests and made them look garish. His profile, the way he gestured with his hands, the faint smile as he listened patiently to whoever was fawning over him – Milo was tossed between anger and envy at the sight. Then he began to watch the way Camus' muscles stretched the fabric of his clothes as he moved, and the sight mesmerized him. He glanced up guiltily at the same instant that Camus turned his head to look down the line, and when their eyes meet Milo's heart leapt to his throat. After that he kept his eyes down, infuriated that he had become one of those he had such contempt for – a puppy eager to lick the the Water-Bearer's hand.

Too soon, "I'm sure you've met Scorpio Milo," the Pontifex was saying warmly. "He's the one you'll want to talk to if you ever want recommendations on exploring the many mountain wilderness areas of Greece."

Milo forced himself to look at Camus as he clasped his hand reluctantly. The Aquarius Saint returned the grip and raised one elegant eyebrow slightly, as if waiting for – what? After a moment he said "Milo," as if they had never met before, then looked off to the left as if he was blind, or bored, or as if Milo had become invisible. "I'll remember that. Perhaps we can climb together someday."

"An excellent idea!" the Pontifex chuckled. "Oh, to be young and vigorous again!"

Milo let go of Camus' hand and moved away with a vertiginous sense of disappointment.

They were seated by houses during the banquet. Milo concentrated on eating, trying to shut out the low murmur of Camus' conversation with Pisces on the other side of Shura. As soon as the main course plates had been cleared he excused himself and went outside for air.

Deathmask stood smoking at the cliff edge, looking out at the moonlit Aegean sparkling in the distance. He turned, studied Milo for a minute, then uncharacteristically offered a cigarette. Milo uncharacteristically accepted, and they smoked in companionable silence until Deathmask observed, "We're missing dessert."

"Probably."

As he turned to go back inside the Cancer Saint asked in his lazy drawl, "So, did the bug up your ass die quick, or slow?"

Milo exhaled a stream of smoke with a half-smile. "He died happy, fucked to death by the other bugs."

Deathmask snorted. "That's the way to go. Here, kill some more." He tossed the pack of smokes to Milo and walked away, his boots crunching on the gravel.

Milo smoked thoughtfully, eyes closed, mind blissfully blank until footsteps brought him back to himself. He opened his eyes. A pale face, disembodied by dark clothes, was swimming out of the night.

"Filthy habit." With a swirl of chilly air, Camus walked up to him, picked the cigarette from his mouth, and threw it away. "It will make your mouth taste like a pile of moldy leaves soaked in piss."

It was the first time that Milo had ever seen Camus without a trailing entourage, the first time that Camus had addressed him without others present. Milo was frozen between the urge to run and the urge to sting Camus with the Scarlet Needle until he fell to the ground senseless.

The Aquarius Saint turned and looked towards the cliff's edge. "Or so I've heard."

Milo was infuriated: what response did Camus expect to that? With a woman, Milo would have judged the line to be a provocative opening, and would of course have replied, "Kiss me and find out," but Camus wasn't a woman. Milo opened his mouth, and what came out was, "It was cold in Siberia?"

"Yes, very cold." Camus turned back to look at him, his eyes glittering like dark ice, his face completely unreadable, emotionless.

"I hate that." Milo was finally reaching an emotion he understood: anger.

"Most people don't like the cold," Camus said quietly.

"I didn't say I didn't like it. I said I _hated_ it." Yes, this was good. Being angry was familiar, straightforward, comfortable.

"Yes, you did." Camus turned and began to walk back towards the Holy Father's Temple. "My mistake."

"Camus!" Milo, fuming, darted in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Why did you come out here? What do you want from me?"

"To clear my head," Camus said. "What do you want from _me_? Oh, yes – I know." He reached for Milo's zipper. "It's this, isn't it?"

"What are you doing?" Milo tried to step back, but Camus had a firm grip on the waistband of his pants. In the back of his mind he knew that this wasn't how it had happened, long ago: it wasn't even what he would have wished for, this bold hand sliding into his pants. This harsh, aggressive stranger was not the Camus he knew.

"I don't hear you denying it," this Camus said: then suddenly they were on the cold ground.

"Camus!" Milo shouted: but then his mouth was filled with ice, his arms and chest immobilized by burning cold. He was so shocked he did nothing as a hot tongue darted over his skin; when greedy lips latched on to him, fingertips stroked, teasing, teasing, better than any hooker, it felt so good he just let it happen. Around him the sound of the sea rose suddenly, like a landslide, like a waterfall, like a thousand swords crashing against a thousand shields and then just as suddenly dwindled down to a single beat.

Someone was knocking on his door.

~ : ~

Milo rolled from his bed and stood in the dark, resisting. He knew it was Camus on the other side of the door: no other cosmo had ever made him feel this way, unsure, inadequate, under attack.

In a few seconds the knock came again, measured, inexorable.

"Go away," Milo murmured.

It wasn't enough he was haunted during the daytime, now Camus was pursuing him in dreams as well, hounding him in every corner of the night! Why couldn't the bastard just stay away?

Feeling a rising fury – and a need to settle things once and for all – Milo strode across the room and yanked the door open. "What do you want?"

Camus' expression was wary. After studying the shirtless, flushed Scorpio for a moment, he said, "I interrupted something?"

Milo shrugged, trying to dislodge the shards of tension and frustration searing his shoulders. "Sleeping."

"I'm sorry to wake you."

"I don't want to talk, Camus," Milo said, rubbing his eyes. "Just tell me what you want so that I can go back to bed."

"I wanted – " Camus began.

There was a tone in Camus' voice that Milo had never heard before, different than the usual crisp, arm's-length delivery. If Milo hadn't known better he would have said it sounded like uncertainty. Weakness, almost. But it couldn't be, not coming from Camus. "You wanted _what_?" he prompted.

"I came by to see if you had had any unusual dreams tonight."

This brought him fully awake. "And if I did? Why should I tell you about it?" He'd be damned if he'd let Camus in. He'd be _damned_ if he'd wag his tail.

"I can't explain why, but I feel it's important for me to know."

"I was dreaming about the banquet they held when you came back."

Camus thought for a minute. "Why that? It was nothing exceptional."

Milo rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, well, my version wasn't exactly the same." If Camus really wanted to know ... maybe he _would_ tell him. It might be worth it to see the reaction on that perfect, unflappable face.

"How was your dream different?" Camus pressed: when there was no reply, he asked, "Milo?"

Milo laughed bitterly. "Fine. Just remember, you asked me to tell you. And you have to agree, when I'm done, to never ask about it again."

"Alright." Camus' forehead furrowed, just the slightest bit.

"That night, I went for a walk right after dinner."

Camus nodded slowly, recalling. "You didn't come back."

"In the dream, you followed me outside, and – had your way with me."

"My _way_?" Camus shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Your way," Milo said furiously. "Your way. You – came outside, pinned me down ..."

Camus' eyes widened, and Milo plunged on, flushed in sudden excitement, enjoying the retaliation he was going to deliver. "Bound me in _ice _and gave me head. Against my will." Relishing Camus' shocked expression, he added, "Aren't you happy you asked?"

"How could you – ? I would never do such a thing," Camus said, sounding stunned.

"Yeah, whatever," Milo said, wearily, staring at the floor. _Go away now, Camus._

In answer, Camus reached out and took hold of his wrist.

Milo's hand curled into a fist.

Camus lifted it slowly, watching Milo all the while, until he finally touched the knuckles to his lips.

With that, Milo felt something inside of him break, releasing the emotions he could not name, and he had to acknowledge that the feeling was – happiness. Happiness that Camus was here, uncurling his fingers, pressing lips to his palm, making a path of kisses up his bare arm. He could feel the silent tears spilling over his lids and into the corners of his mouth. No one had ever, ever, touched him so gently ... If this happiness was taken away, now, he would not survive the loss. "What do you want?" he asked again, his voice a croak of misery.

Camus stepped closer, murmuring, "_Mon âme, mon coeur, mon amour, ma vie."_ When his lips reached Milo's shoulder he finally answered the question. "This," he said simply. "To be with you." His other hand went to the back of Milo's head as he kicked the door shut behind him, pulling Milo to him in the dark, communicating that same mix of tentativeness and determination his face had shown when he first appeared at Milo's door; communicating that he wanted this, but only if Milo did as well.

And Milo – he had never realized how much he wanted it until he had it. Perhaps this is why he had felt so uneasy in Camus' presence – holding himself at a distance, he was unable to go to what drew him. But now there was no need to hold back. He put his arms around the other Saint, and the embrace completed him.

Camus spoke, his lips moving against Milo's neck. "I noticed you, always standing apart. I could feel your heat. I wanted to know more about you, have you closer, but I couldn't see how that could happen."

Milo drew back a little. "What changed?"

"Tonight, I also had a dream," Camus said, and kissed him.

This kiss was like nothing Milo'd ever experienced: it was a raw force of nature, an eclipse, an earthquake, a nova. Camus's body was unyielding, gloriously hard as they pressed together, desperate with a pent up need for touch, for release. They embraced so fiercely it seemed that they would tear out each other's hair and shatter bones.

"Be with me," Milo whispered. "Camus, be with me."

"Yes."

That first time they made love Camus almost killed them, because it really had been his first time and, unprepared for the intensity of his climax, he had sent out a pulse of cold that had congealed around them into a fatal, airless solid. In an instant, though, he had flared his cosmo and shattered it, and held the gasping, shaking Milo even tighter against him. "_Mon coeur, ma vie . . ._"

~ : ~

Sunlight filtered through the over-arching branches of the huge trees along the river bank, dappling their skin with shadow, smudging them into the landscape as they floated gently with the slow-moving current. Above, the clouds textured the sky; around them, shards of sunlight coruscated on the water. Threaded through all was the sound of wind and bird song. Idyllic perfection as they lay facing each other on the raft, falling into each other's eyes, catching their breaths as their heartbeats returned to normal.

"Why did you take so long to tell me?" Milo asked.

Camus reached out, touching Milo's hair, shoulder, chest wonderingly, his attention as intense as if he had just been given his senses after a lifetime of gray numbness. "These things – sometimes one is wrong. Both people have to be ready, have to be sure. I was not, until tonight." His fingertips traced Milo's profile. "Should I say now that I regret it? Apologize for the man I have been before? For that other Camus' choices, his fear?"

Milo rolled onto his back. "No, I don't think I was ready either." He held up a hand up to block the sunlight dazzling his eyes. "I wonder," he said thoughtfully, "the dream we're having now – did you come into mine, did I go into yours, or are we someplace different?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. Still, we've been – " he glanced sideways at Camus, slyly, " - _dreaming_ a long time. Shouldn't it be morning by now? Shouldn't we be waking up?"

"Dreams can stop time," Camus said, "Some say that you can live an entire lifetime in the space of a single night." He brushed the back of his hand along Milo's arm and down his side; his fingers swirled over the flat belly, tracing around the navel until he teased out a shiver. "We should take advantage of this and _dream _some more, don't you think?" They moved into position with practiced economy, whorls of hair clinging to their sun-dappled shoulders as they merged in the familiar rhythm. The physical aspect of their union almost seemed secondary to the emotional aspect: they really were inside each other now, they really did feel like one flesh, one heart, one spirit. With Camus, Milo for the first time in his life felt truly present in the moment, truly alive despite the terrible, uncharted vastness of loving someone who loved him back.

. . . and then Camus vanished, and Milo's world ended.

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_Next chapter: Camus_


	11. Aquarius Camus

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

_This chapter is dedicated in thanks to The Love Bug, for taking the time to review._

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**Seed, chapter 11: Camus**  
_by Silverr_

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"I don't like this," Aldebaran said as he and Mu left Aries Temple and began to climb the stairs towards Taurus. "Sanctuary feels so deserted." He stopped. "Can you sense anyone's cosmo?"

Mu stopped, closed his eyes, shook his head. "Just … very faint whispers. As if they are sleeping deeply." He added emotionlessly, "Or hiding."

Aldebaran contemplated Mu for a moment, and silently added _Or dead?_ But he didn't say this. "I can't even sense yours, and you're next to me."

Mu started up the stairs again. "In my weakness I delayed us too long. Shaka probably has found all the others already and sent them up the hill."

"Well, I'm sure once we have gathered together we'll unravel these mysteries," Aldebaran said heartily, hiding his worry.

They had sat for what seemed like most of the day – Time itself seemed skewed since the dreams – on the wide stone windowsills of Mu's Temple. Aldebaran had decided not to rush and to give Mu as much time as he needed to recover, because Mu seemed much more shaken by the whole ordeal than he or Shaka had been. It was a good place to wait: if an enemy did attack, the two of them would be the first line of defense anyhow.

And then, he had to admit to himself that just sitting in companionable silence watching Mu stare out the window was a selfish pleasure. It was a small thing, to be sure, but he had learned to content himself with small things where Mu was concerned. The big things were out of his grasp.

And yet ... as the hours went by his mind had wandered into doubt. Perhaps he had been going about things all wrong. Those marks on Mu's body … His first response had been to comfort, to heal his friend's cuts and bruises, but Mu had quickly covered the marks back up, obviously ashamed of the story they told. The memory of the sight ate away at Aldebaran, sending his thoughts in a dangerous direction. If that was the result of what Mu had dreamed, didn't it mean that being handled that way was what he really wanted? Sex so rough that he would be bruised, and cut, and – hurt? Was he one of those who needed pain to feel pleasure? Or perhaps he only required it to assuage his guilt over having lustful feelings for Shiryu. Perhaps Mu needed to feel punished before he could overcome his own restrictions?

Aldebaran kept trying to suppress the image of Mu as the demon-Shiryu had moved atop him, his delicate face clenched at first but finally relaxing into pleasure, his body tense with resistance but finally surging wildly with passion. Aldebaran had tried not to look but hadn't been able to stop himself, and the horrible, hypnotic sight had burned into his mind's eye, flooding him then and since with jealousy and anger and envy and disappointment and desire. He never expected to be more than a friend to Mu, but wasn't that settling for a slice when what he wanted was the loaf? Maybe he should risk losing what he had already by trying a more forceful approach? ... No, he could never be that kind of lover, and so it was no use thinking such thoughts. The best thing to do was to just bury the feelings once again.

In fact, perhaps he ought to stop spending time with Mu altogether. After seeing the disparity between the gentle, playful, welcoming Mu of his own dream and Mu's true nature, having him close would be a constant, painful distraction – and distractions of any kind were hazardous to a Saint. Lost in his thoughts, he finally realized that Mu was speaking to him.

"What?"

"What did Shaka say?"

"He said for everyone to meet at Athena's Temple."

Without a word, Mu slipped off the stone windowsill and stood, waiting.

There was about the Aries Saint's stance at that moment something that made Aldebaran's heart twist, and his resolve to separate himself from Mu was forgotten. Before all this happened Mu had always been quiet, but it had been a quiet of subdued self-possession. Now he had the passive air of the subjugated, of a proud man beaten and broken into submission. To see Mu this way made Aldebaran angry at whoever had done this to him – to all of them, really. It was such an underhanded way to attack, dragging their secrets into the open. A man needed a small dim safe corner of the soul for those thoughts that would never be acted out – but that refuge had been taken from all of them. Aldebaran, queasy, felt the faint stirrings of panic. How could this ever be fixed between them? How could he offer encouragement to Mu? Say, "Don't let this break you," without making it an admission of how shattered Mu seemed to be?

"Will you," Mu asked, "walk with me?"

And that, perhaps, was all that he could do for Mu at this time. Just be someone to walk with. Aldebaran noticed as they climbed that their footsteps were synchronized. The rhythmic scuff-scuff-scuff sound unaccountably lifted his spirits.

They entered Gemini unchallenged, and went only a few feet before they noticed a trail of blood and offal threading down the center of the corridor toward Cancer Temple.

"What happened here?" Mu traced the spatters back to a stone wall. "Should we break through?"

""Better to follow the trail," Aldebaran said. "The person who made these tracks is either wounded – or a murderer."

Running now, they followed the footsteps into Cancer Temple. The trail started straight, then backtracked to a pool of blood in the side corridor.

"More?" Mu asked. "But whose? The wounded or the attacker?"

"Or did someone finally get their fill of Angelo?" Aldebaran said.

Mu shook his head. "Everyone's cosmo is the same here as it was in my Temple. Echoes."

The trail in Cancer Temple faded out quickly, but not before unmistakably heading for Leo.

By this time they were so filled with foreboding and dread that the blood spilled in Leo Temple hardly surprised them. The edges of the pool were smeared, as if there had been a struggle; there seemed to be boot-prints as well, but it was difficult to tell.

"Is this the end of it?" Aldebaran said. "And how are we to read these clues?"

"The story in them," Mu said, "is not one I welcome."

They were so braced for a continuation of the carnage that as they entered Virgo Temple they were more puzzled than relieved that there was no sign of violence.

Mu shook his head. "The same as before."

"So we'll go on?"

"Yes."

Libra was, of course, empty.

They ran up the stairs to Scorpio. Inside, both of them felt the difference: the cosmo was a little stronger, although still faint. There was someone here.

The main rooms were empty, and so they lit torches and made their way downstairs - Milo's private rooms were next to his balineum. They entered and gasped in shock.

Milo and Camus lay holding each other on the bed. They looked frighteningly ill, their skin sallow, their nude bodies emaciated, all concaves and sinews and jutting bones. It was their eyes that were most disturbing, though: open but unseeing, fierce haunted blue coals as they stared at each other soundlessly.

Shocked, Mu asked, "Milo? Camus?" He touched the side of Camus' neck, then Milo's. "They are still alive, but the pulse is very weak."

"Why are they doing this?" Aldebaran whispered, horrified. The hand that held the torch high above the two motionless Saints trembled. "Why didn't anyone notice that they were doing this? This had to have started long before the night of dreams!"

"Or," Mu said slowly, "or, time has passed differently since that night, perhaps more time than any of us are aware of. If the demon's illusion still holds them – "

" – they might have no idea that they are killing themselves. _Pobres desgraçados._"

"We must wake them, then," Mu said, in crisis beginning to come back to himself. He quickly put his torch in a wall bracket, then came back to the bed and shook Camus' shoulder. There was no response. He then tried pushing the two Saints apart, but their limbs were so rigid – and their hold on each other so tight – that it seemed that they could not be separated without injury. "There's only one way," he said. "I'll take Camus."

Aldebaran nodded. He moved around to the opposite side of the bed, used his torch to light the candles on a large floor candelabra, then flicked it out and knelt, one hand placed lightly on Milo's shoulder.

Mu bent down, put one hand on the back of Camus's neck and the other under the Aquarius Saint's hip, and teleported with him a few feet away.

The instant Camus disappeared Milo called out hoarsely, "Camussssss!" and blindly grasped the air in front of him, pulling his weakened body across the bed as if following Camus' scent. Aldebaran gently wrapped a huge arm across the agitated Saint, holding him back.

Camus, in return, had stretched a hand out toward Milo's voice, but after a moment sagged dejectedly in Mu's arms. Mu lowered him into a chair.

Aldebaran murmured to the still struggling Milo, "Sorry, my friend," then touched the pressure point on the Scorpio Saint's neck until he was unconscious. Aldebaran covered him with a blanket, then with a sigh took another from the floor to drape over the shivering Camus.

"Camus?" Mu asked gently, kneeling next to the chair. "Can you hear me, Camus?"

After a moment the huddled figure raised his head, blinking slowly.

"Camus?" Mu asked. "Do you know where you are?"

"I was – " he said slowly, then his head jerked up. And his voice shook in confusion. "Where – ?"

"You were dreaming," Mu said gently. "We had to wake you. You are in Milo's room in Scorpio Temple."

"Dreaming." Camus sat up a little straighter, pulling the blanket up around his chin. His eyes were beginning to clear. "Milo. Where's Milo – ?"

"He's over here," Aldebaran said.

Camus bent his head until his hair fell forward, obscuring his face. "I can't – I need to sit by him."

Mu guided Camus, the blanket wrapped around him like a cloak, across to the bed. He sat gingerly, then touched Milo's forehead. "Why does he look like this? Is he dying?" His voice was desolate, and Mu and Aldebaran exchanged worried looks.

"No, he's not dying," Aldebaran said, "I just put him to sleep for a while."

"Camus," Mu asked, "Why did the two of you choose to do this?"

Camus furrowed his forehead in confusion. "Choose?"

"To go without food and water for so long. Was it a suicide pact? To die together?" Aldebaran had never heard Mu's voice so full of pain.

"No," Camus shook his head slowly. "Nothing like that. It must have been – the time passing in the dreams. Have many days gone by?"

"Dreams?" Mu looked at Aldebaran sharply. "What dreams?"

"In the first," Camus began, "we were all in a cave, and a shape-shifting demon came. It was so – " Camus appeared to choke. "It suggested such vile things. And then it – " He suddenly looked up at Mu.

Mu nodded. "We all had this dream, Camus. It may help you to speak of it."

Camus blinked slowly, staring past Mu into the shadows as he remembered. "First it was a green-skinned demoness, then the goddess Kali-Durga, then the White Hag, then a fire elemental. Then it," he looked down, avoiding Mu's eyes, "became Athena, then a butterfly Specter, then Bronze Saint of Dragon." He seemed grimly determined to finish the litany now that he had started. "Then you, Mu, and then Marine Shogun Kanon, then Athena," here his voice shook with disgust, "then Saga, Shaka, myself, and Athena again." He was clutching the blanket so hard now that it began to tear. "I never knew so many of us had such things within us." He turned his head slightly to look at Milo, motionless and barely breathing, and said wearily, "I never knew I did."

Mu and Aldebaran's eyes met again.

"I dreamt," Camus said, "that I lived in a polar land. Not Siberia, but very like. The unforgiving cold. The silence. I can't say how, but in the dream it seemed that even though I was alone I was there at Athena's request. Happy in my isolation, I had the animals of the pack ice and the sea for company. Years passed in the dream, and I was completely content. A creature of snow and ice." He laughed mirthlessly. "I stored the firewood I never used in the fireplace I never used, until the wood crumbled to shreds.

"One night there was a storm like none I'd ever experienced. I expected at any moment that the hut would be ripped away by the wind, and I felt cold for the first time in my life.

"Finally all was quiet. I opened the door to an enchanted world. The midnight sun painted long shadows across the high snowdrifts, and the aurora flickered on the horizon. I felt as though I was the only person on earth, and this filled me with immense peace. I stepped through my door, pushing into the deep snow, eager as always to explore the pristine beauty, when my foot struck something. I cleared the snow away and saw a hand, the frozen fingertips torn and bloody." Here Camus paused, and his mouth twisted with a strong emotion. "He had clawed my door, you see, trying to get in during the storm, but I hadn't heard a thing." He paused. "I brought him inside and laid him on the rug, smashed my chair to build a fire, but of course it was pointless. He was gray with death.

"I cut his clothes away, put him in my bed, laid my body on his, burned my cosmo as if it could re-ignite his life, but after all my attempts he was still cold. I – I lost my reason, then, and in my despair I stroked his hair, talked to him as if he was alive. Pillow talk," Camus said with a bitter, harsh laugh. "As lovers do."

Mu looked stricken. Silent tears ran down Aldebaran's face.

"The first time I met him," Camus continued, intent on finishing his confession, "he had had such fire and vitality. Such certainty – often to the point of blindness and cruelty, to be sure – but despite his flaws there was in him a rough ore that contained something invaluable." Camus struggled to control himself. "Yet I avoided acknowledging the feelings he showed to me. Stirred in me. I always told myself that a liaison between us should never be started because it would certainly end badly, because his warmth wouldn't be able to withstand my coldness, but that was the rationalization of a coward. A liar." Camus exhaled heavily. "I have always considered myself an individualist, an ethical non-conformist, but I am a sham. I feared what others in Sanctuary would say if he and I were together openly."

"Camus," Aldebaran started to say more, but stopped.

"Although at least I suppose that I can take some pride that I refused to compromise, to take advantage of him through a secret relationship." Camus bent his head. "The irony of that dream made these things clear to me. In the one place where no one would care if we were together – because there was no one around to see, to care – he was dead because I had not heard him trying to get to me."

"Did your dream end there?" Mu asked.

"No, it did not," Camus said. "I came to myself, finally, and built a mausoleum for him of snow and ice." He stared at the torches. "As I carried him to the bier I felt Athena's presence. She asked me what was my wish, my deepest heart's desire, and I said that I wanted what I knew was not possible, to have him back again, to make a life with him. As I said this the body in my arms warmed, and he opened his eyes and began to breathe again.

"That is when I knew I was in a dream, for even Athena cannot bring the dead back to life," Camus continued, "not truly. So I made myself wake up, resolving to act immediately on the lesson. I came here to Scorpio Temple, and Milo and I began on the path we - I – had been incapable of before."

Aldebaran watched Mu. The Aries Saint's face, intent on Camus' story, was warmed by the candlelight to an ethereal strength and purity that swept away all other images. No matter what, he could not lose this presence.

"Afterwards, we fell asleep together, and have been dreaming, it seems, together since then. Many many days, it seems." Slowly, as if it were painful to move, Camus brought his hand out from inside the blanket and touched Milo's hollow cheek. "I admit I didn't want to wake from that last dream. To find the courage to say what's in your heart, to be with the one you ache for – do you understand?"

There was a long silence as Aldebaran and Mu both considered this, then both nodded. Mu said thoughtfully, "Your feelings were so strong, and in such complementary alignment, that you entered each other's dreams."

"It seems so," Camus said.

Just then, a clatter of boots on the stairs announced the arrival of Deathmask and Saga.

Deathmask clapped his hands as he took in the group on the bed. "Oh, look at this. Another heartwarming scene. Let me guess – those two have been at it since – "

Aldebaran gave him a warning look just as Milo stirred and blearily opened his eyes. His smile faded as he blinked and Camus' face came into focus. "What happened to you?" he asked, struggling to sit up and beginning with bewilderment to take in his surroundings and Camus' appearance.

"A little storm. But it's over now," Camus said, uncomfortable that he and Milo now had an audience of four.

Deathmask waved his hand. "Enough poetry. You two look like shit. Take ten minutes and get washed up before we head uphill. And get dressed. Athena'll probably appreciate it. I know I will."

Camus pulled the blanket around himself and stood, staring at the floor as Saga, followed by Aldebaran and Mu, pushed Deathmask out into the hall.

As he watched Mu close the door, Deathmask slouched against the stairs and added, "We ought to split them up, you know, and not let them have bathtime together or we'll be waiting for hours for them to finish their soapy fuck fun."

As Aldebaran looked away in embarrassed remembrance of his own dream of the bathhouse he met Mu's eyes, which were wide with some insight. "What is it?" he asked.

Mu shook his head, then asked Deathmask and Saga, "Do either of you know why there is blood in your temples?"

"Oh, that," Deathmask said sullenly. He was chewing on a toothpick. "Aiolia lost it and killed the two of us, then slit his throat."

Aldebaran's brow furrowed. "We saw some evidence of that, yet you're alive. How can that be?"

"I dunno," Deathmask shrugged. "Weird dream shit, I guess? Glad it's over."

"I'm not sure it is," Mu said.

"And yet," Saga frowned, "if it is not, how is it possible to be aware of a shared dream, and yet continue to dream it?"

"I believe that more and more of us are being pulled back into a common dream, as we had at the beginning."

"Maybe that part was real." Deathmask said, spitting the splintered toothpick to one side and grinning. "Maybe some of us got prime demon ass."

Mu shook his head. "Too many things indicate otherwise, not the least is that we are seeing both the evidence of your and Saga's death – "

" – and the evidence of us not being dead." Saga nodded. "I see. So how will we know when it's over?"

"When the one that put us in the dream decides it is time for us to wake," Shaka said, appearing at the top of the stairs with Aiolia.

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_~ To be concluded in the next chapter. ~_

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I would like to thank again those that take the time to review. As long as I know that people are reading – and enjoying what they read – it makes the work of writing worthwhile.


	12. Finale

St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. Knights of the Zodiac is copyright DiC. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works.

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**Seed, chapter 12: Finale**  
_by Silverr_

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"I wonder what took them so long." Deathmask muttered with a smirk as Shaka and Aiolia descended the stairs. ""Didn't they say they'd follow us 'in a few minutes'? I guess they got – _sidetracked_."

It was amazing how much innuendo he could put in a single word.

"Angelo," Saga said, "Not everything is about sex or death."

"Take those out, what's left is boring," Deathmask said flippantly.

Saga shook his head. "There are times when I wonder how one such as you became a Saint."

"Well, we all have our bad sides," Aldebaran soothed. "It's just that Angelo's is on the outside. Inside he's probably full of tender human emotions."

"Shut the fuck up," Deathmask snarled.

Saga raised his eyebrows. "Well, that answers that."

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Aiolia gestured at the closed door of Milo's room with a puzzled look.

"Tongue broken?" Deathmask asked as Aiolia brushed past him.

"We have not healed his throat enough for his speech to have returned," Shaka said.

"Oh, so you DID do some laying on of hands," Deathmask said with a leer. "I figured as much."

Aiolia whirled and drew his fist back, but was stopped by Aldebaran. "Control yourself," he rumbled in the furious Leo Saint's ear. "It's what the Demon Queen wants, for us to fight each other."

Deathmask opened his mouth, but Shaka pointed a finger at him. "Eager to experience Heaven's Treasure?" he asked coolly.

The Cancer Saint shut his mouth.

A moment later the door to Milo's rooms opened and he and Camus stepped out into the hall. Freshly showered, they were dressed in baggy, tightly-belted civilian clothes that seemed several sizes too large for them.

Aiolia did a double-take. Deathmask, ignoring Shaka's stern glare, quipped, "Well, that was fast. You two save water by showering together?"

Camus looked at the floor, and Milo narrowed his eyes angrily.

"Stop it, Angelo," Aldebaran warned.

"Let's go," Saga said.

As the eight of them – Deathmask, Saga, Milo, Camus, Aiolia, Shaka, Mu, and Aldebaran – left Scorpio Temple, Mu signaled Aldebaran with a tilt of his head to hang back. The two of them let the others get out of earshot before they began to climb the stairs to Sagittarius.

"What is it?" Aldebaran asked, his forehead creased in concern. "Is it about what you thought of – back there, in the hall?"

"Yes," Mu whispered. "When Deathmask mentioned bathing and ... you ..." He paused and swallowed, "had a reaction. This may seem an odd question, but did you – ?" He paused again, seeming uncharacteristically tense.

"Did I – ?" Aldebaran prompted, curious now.

"Did you – dream of the bathhouse?" Mu forced the words out. His profile was pale, but the tips of his ears were bright red.

Aldebaran gaped and repeated, "The bathhouse? Yes, but – why do you ask?"

"Was anyone else in your dream?"

Hm, approaching dangerous territory now. "Yes."

Mu took a deep breath, "Was it me?"

"How did you know?" Aldebaran said without thinking.

Mu stopped, and they faced each other. "A guess. I also dreamt of the bathhouse. And you ... were in _my_ dream."

Aldebaran knew he must look idiotic, with his mouth hanging open in surprise like a fish.

Mu continued, "What happened to Milo and Camus clearly has happened to more of us. A shared dream. The – same dream."

"I was in – ? But I thought you dreamt about – you had a _second_ dream?"

"Yes, it was quite – passionate, as I mentioned before." Mu ducked his head.

Aldebaran said wonderingly, "When you said you had been touched with passion in a dream, I thought you meant," he dropped his voice, "your _first_ dream. With Shiryu. That seemed to be very – " He stopped, embarrassment flooding over his neck and jaw, "passionate."

"That dream was cruelty," Mu murmured. "The true passion was – in the next dream." He looked at Aldebaran with almost the same expression he had had in the dream, an expression of shy welcome.

From far above them Saga – who was leading the group – shouted, "We should all stay together for a while yet, don't you think?"

Mu and Aldebaran turned guiltily and begin to run up the stairs to catch up to the others.

"I think," Aldebaran said when he found his voice, "I might have a soap that will get those butterfly stains off."

"Hm," Mu said with a small smile.

~ : ~

Only Mu and Aldebaran, walking directly behind Aiolia, noticed how his step slowed as they prepared to enter Sagittarius Temple.

Saga, who with Deathmask had been leading the procession, stopped and waited, as if unwilling to enter without Aiolia's permission.

The Leo Saint walked past him, staring straight ahead. Saga looked as though he was going to say something, but when Shaka shook his head slightly the Gemini Saint remained silent, and the moment, though filled with tension, passed without incident.

Shaka and Aiolia took the lead as they walked though Capricorn, which seemed deserted, and Aquarius. As they started to climb the steps towards Pisces they could see, high above them off to the left, someone lying on the steps of Athena's Temple.

"Who is that?" Camus asked, shading his eyes with his hand. "And are they dead, or hurt?"

Shaka lifted his head. "Shura," he said confidently. "Not dead or hurt. Sleeping."

"_Oi! Shura!_" Aldebaran bellowed up the mountain, the echo scattering birds for an eighth of a mile.

Shura stirred, sat up, jumped to his feet, picked up something lying next to him, and ran down the stairs from Athena's temple into the Holy Father's Palace.

"Was that – Excalibur in his hand?"

"And was he – ?" Aldebaran asked. "He looked strange – "

Deathmask snorted. "Strange as in naked?"

An instant later the Capricorn Cloth zoomed out of the temple behind them, up and around Pisces, and into the Holy Father's Palace, following Shura.

"Complete Dedication," Milo said _sotto voce_. Camus gave him a look, half-amused, half-reprimanding.

They entered Pisces.

Aldebaran took a deep breath then called out, "Mu of Aries, Aldebaran of Taurus, Saga of Gemini, Deathmask of Cancer, Aiolia of Leo, Shaka of Virgo, Milo of Scorpio, and Camus of Aquarius! May we enter?"

They heard footsteps, but it was only Shura, now in his Cloth, sword in hand, approaching from the other end of the temple.

"Nice of you to get dressed for us," Deathmask said.

"What's going on?" Shura asked.

Saga said, "We're trying to assemble everyone and find out. I assume you've also been having strange dreams?"

"Dreams that told you to sleep naked on Athena's steps?" Milo murmured.

Shura coughed and avoided looking at anyone. "Yes. Dreams." He looked down at his feet. "She told me to wait for her." He hefted Excalibur and rubbed his hip with his free hand.

"Um, hmm," Deathmask snickered, but caught sight of Shaka from the corner of his eye and was silent.

Saga asked, "Have you seen Aphrodite?"

"No." Shura shook his head.

Saga turned to Deathmask. "Any idea where he might be?"

"Greenhouse?" the Cancer Saint said with a shrug, then added as he moved past Shura, "Nice hair."

The greenhouse had been built onto the side of Pisces Temple that overlooked the sea, and was entered through an ornate Art Nouveau brass and glass door.

"It's not very big," Mu said, looking around appreciatively, "but it's beautiful." Having been away from Sanctuary for so many years, he'd never seen the greenhouses.

"This is only the room where he raises roses," Deathmask said brusquely. "there are three more rooms after this one. One for tropical jungle plants, one for Temperate Zone fruit trees, and the furthest one for – " He saw Milo looking at him with a half-smirk, and closed his mouth with a snap. "Shouldn't take too long to search."

"No," said Shura, who was standing near one side of the greenhouse and looking at something, "not long at all." He sounded as though he was choking.

The others rushed over.

Next to a long table scattered with large, salmon-colored rosebuds (which looked to have been plucked from the surrounding rosebushes) was a futon. On the futon …

"Quite a colorful arrangement," Camus said dryly.

Three nude bodies intertwined in sleep. Three heads of tousled hair - red, turquoise, and green. Several dozen salmon-colored roses in various stages of de-petaling, and a small wooden chest containing various intriguing items – some of which not even Milo or Deathmask had ever seen before.

As the eight of them looked on in various stages of amusement, embarrassment, or detachment, a very naked Marin snuggled closer to and nuzzled an equally naked Aphrodite, while on the other side of him Shaina – whose naked thigh was across Aphrodite's crotch - yawned and shifted her leg, revealing that which had been covered.

Someone sucked in their breath.

Deathmask glanced at Aldebaran, who looked impressed, and asked what no doubt several of them were thinking. "Well? Is he bigger than you?"

"That's a very rude question, Angelo," Aldebaran said blandly, then shrugged. "Relative to his body size, most definitely."

Deathmask whistled, and everything went black.

~ : ~

It took Mu a moment to realize where he was – back in his bed in Aries Temple. With a sense of déjà vu he ran up the stairs to Taurus.

"Now what?" Aldebaran asked as he met up with him at the entrance.

"Towards Athena's temple again."

"It's almost as if something is keeping us from getting there."

Mu nodded. "That could be."

"Or maybe it's a loop of time," Aldebaran said. "Or are we still dreaming?"

"No, I think we are finally out of the dream," Mu said. "Look." He took his chestplate and shoulder guard off. The bruises and scratches on his chest were gone, as were the stains from the butterfly scales.

Aldebaran felt a swift twist of disappointment.

Aldebaran asked as, for the third time that day, they ascended the steps to Gemini. "So everything from the dream is gone?"

"Perhaps not everything," Mu said as they waited for Saga at the entrance. "I suspect that some things will remain."

Aldebaran turned to him, puzzled. "What things?"

"Ah," Mu said evasively. "Perhaps you and I could discuss them later? After this mystery is solved. I would – still like to try out that soap you mentioned."

Aldebaran swallowed, and said, "We can certainly do that, if you wish."

Saga, carrying his helmet under his arm, approached them then. "We have awakened, finally."

"Yes," Mu nodded.

"Why now?"

As they went up the stairs to Cancer Aldebaran laughed suddenly. "I wonder if it's because everyone's deepest wish has now been fulfilled."

After a moment, "Aphrodite," Saga chuckled. "I see. You could be right."

They were still smiling as they entered Cancer. Deathmask joined them saying, "This is starting to piss me off."

At Leo, Aiolia's throat was unmarred.

"It's over then?" he asked as they approached.

"It seems to be," Mu said.

"Your voice is back," Saga said.

"Yes, I'm healed." His tone was crisp.

"Aiolia – " Saga began.

"Now is not the time," Aiolia said as he turned to lead them through his temple. As a chastened Saga followed, Aiolia added more forgivingly, "Later, there will be time." He looked back over his shoulder at Saga and though they didn't speak, something passed between them. Saga nodded.

As they came up to Virgo, Shaka appeared in the entrance.

"So why are we doing all this walking this anyhow?" Deathmask grumbled. "Climbing up to Athena's so that we can all have a group hug?"

"We must figure out the demon's purpose in leading us through these dreams," Shaka said as they began to walk through his temple, "And in preventing us from reaching Athena's Temple."

"Maybe it's like she told us?" Deathmask said. "She wanted a sperm collection, ours is the best, and so we all got a fantasy screw."

Shaka shook his head. "There must be another reason. She did not collect seed from all of us."

"What?"

"Not all of the dreams were of a sexual nature, you mean," Saga said. His eyes flicked to Aiolia, walking stoically at Shaka's side.

"Pfft. Mine wasn't sexual and I still shot my wad." Everyone stared at Deathmask, who immediately looked as though he had regretted speaking.

"So what was your dream about, anyhow?" Aldebaran asked. Outwardly genial, the tone had an unmistakable hard edge. "All the rest of us have revealed."

Deathmask ignored him as they passed through Libra. "So Shaka, who do you figure didn't donate?"

"I did not," Shaka said firmly.

"Really? You didn't get off?"

"In certain spiritual practices one is trained not to ejaculate," Shaka said calmly, "in order to prolong the partner's pleasure."

"Kind of pointless for you to study stuff like that, isn't it?" Deathmask said, "since you're too pure to practice the theory."

"I might choose a partner someday," Shaka said unflappably as they exited Libra Temple into the sunlight. "And if my personal life ever becomes your concern I will be sure to inform you of any changes in my sleeping arrangements."

This response from Shaka was so unprecedented that the ascent to Scorpio was in stunned silence.

At Scorpio, another shock. Milo was dressed in his Cloth, but he looked as haggard and bruised as he had in the dream.

"What is this?" Saga asked Shaka. "Does this mean we're still dreaming?"

Mu shook his head. "I don't think so. After all, he and Camus truly were starving themselves during the dreamtime."

Deathmask snorted and muttered, "Probably screwing each other in their sleep, too."

"Angelo," Saga said warningly.

Milo, glowering, led them on.

As they walked though Sagittarius Saga asked, "So if this wasn't about sex, then what was it about?"

"Is it not generally true," Shaka said, "that one's deepest desire is for what one needs to assimilate to become whole?"

"Huh?" Deathmask said.

"We each are missing or denying some aspect of ourselves," Mu said, "which was given a symbolic representation in our dreams."

"But if it was all related to us, why did people we know appear in the dreams?"

"Are we not sometimes drawn to others because they possess qualities we do not?" Shaka said carefully.

Mu, walking at the back of the group, smiled. He felt he knew Shaka well, perhaps better than anyone else in Sanctuary, and yet here was the Virgo Saint expressing a distinctly romantic sentiment. It seemed that Shaka, like all of them, had a hidden corner in his soul.

Mu glanced at Aldebaran and saw that he too was watching Shaka. "It will be an interesting friendship," Aldebaran said quietly, his glance flicking to Aiolia. He and Shaka were several feet apart, and yet the bond between them was so tangible they might as well have been side by side.

Capricorn. Shura joined them as they walked though.

Camus was waiting for them at the entrance of his temple, looking only slightly less gaunt than Milo. When the group reached the top of the stairs the Aquarius Saint (with a slightly grim expression) stepped up to Milo and without so much as a glance at the others kissed the Scorpio Saint with considerable passion.

Milo pulled back, looking at Camus in disbelief. When Camus gave a small but firm nod Milo gave a soft, astonished "Ah!" and kissed him back.

"Yeah, we got it, we got it," Deathmask grumbled, "you two are finally hooking up." He cocked a thumb back over his shoulder. "And so are they. Isn't anyone gonna go to bed with me?"

"No," several voices said in unison.

Milo reluctantly let go of a slightly red-faced Camus, murmuring, "Later. I have plans for you later."

"Good," Camus said quietly.

"So, we're finally off to see Athena," Aphrodite said brightly as they trooped into Pisces Temple. "Wonderful."

"Where are the girls?" Milo teased.

"Girls?" Aphrodite asked innocently, fluttering his long eyelashes as he led them out of Pisces.

"Shaina and Marin?" Camus said. "We know that you dreamt about them."

"You know about – my dream with the girls?" Aphrodite purred, pretending to be abashed but visibly preening.

"Of course we know. We all saw it. Wasn't that what you wanted?" Deathmask said as they trudged up the stairs towards the Kyoko's Palace. "We all dreamed something that should make us think about what makes us tick. About what we want. Or need. You think we think you're a joke and don't take you seriously as a Saint or a man, so you wanted everyone to see you and your huge meat as the filling for a happy fuck sandwich." He shrugged. "I woulda guessed that you'd pick different _bread_, but – whatever."

Everyone gaped at this except Aphrodite.

"You know I don't care what people think of me, Angelo," he demurred, but then said "Still …" and fell into thought.

"Pisces. Always the last to get everything," Deathmask growled with surprising affection. "Fuckin' bubblehead."

"I never realized you were so perceptive," Aldebaran said as they emerged from the dark, unoccupied interior of the Kyoko's Palace.

The Cancer Saint huffed in irritation. "A lot you jack-offs don't know about me."

"And whose doing is that?" Milo asked.

"Let's not fight about this," Saga said. "Shaka, when do you think the attack will come?"

"It has already come and been repulsed," Shaka said. "I do not think there will be another."

"Huh?" Deathmask said, puzzled. "We won?"

"Yes," Mu nodded. "I see. The dreams were meant to strike the core of who we are. And initially they were successful, because in the aftermath many of us – hid."

Saga added slowly, "Had we stayed in hiding, we would not have broken the spell." He glanced at Milo and Camus. "Some almost died before it was broken."

"Wouldn't we all have died sooner or later?" Aphrodite asked. "Wasn't being in the dream world like being in a coma?"

Shura shook his head. "But … it doesn't make sense. Powerful enough to control our dreams – yet why not attack during that time? Athena was entirely undefended! Sanctuary could have been destroyed!"

"Perhaps there was never any intention to destroy us," Shaka said, looking up at Athena's temple. "Perhaps – "

His words stopped as he watched Saori Kido, the current incarnation of the Goddess Athena, emerge from her temple and await them.

" – perhaps it was a test."

~ : ~

She watched them approach and ascend the stairs toward her.

Shaka or Saga, she felt, would be the most likely to unravel it all: their truths were just unpleasant enough that they would want to turn away from them a little, but not so strong that they would be drowning in them.

Mu, Aldebaran, Milo, Camus – these were too immersed in each other to think as clearly as they might have, but they too had done their best, at least as far as she was concerned, and she was pleased with them. And Deathmask, Shura, Aphrodite – they too had pleased her, very well in fact. Finally, Aiolia. His demons were powerful, but he could conquer them, if they did not rip him apart, if he could forge connections to the others.

Yes, many seeds had been planted in her Saints. Seeds of passion, boldness, self acceptance, tenderness, honesty, empathy, enlightenment, endurance, courage, and pride. Each of them had been brought to a place in himself that was sleeping or buried, a truth previously unknown or denied, and found another dimension to themselves.

They stopped a few steps below her, and knelt.

"Goddess," Saga said, "there has been an attack."

"An attack?"

"It was delivered through our very dreams," Saga continued, "by someone powerful enough to control of space and time. It was meant to sow chaos amongst your Saints, and leave Sanctuary unguarded."

"You speak as if this danger has passed. Was the enemy defeated?"

"It was," Shaka said steadily.

She looked at them, and bowed her head. "Thank you, once again."

"We live to serve you," Shura said: and then Athena raised her arms, gave them benediction, and sent them back to their temples.

~ : ~

She watched until the last one had descended, then turned and went inside.

Everyone had gotten exactly they needed. Including herself, she thought as she regarded her reflection in a mirror. She smiled at her reflection. Blinked, and her skin was pale green; blinked again and it was deep blue, then bone white, and finally made of flame.

She laughed with joy as she awoke.

~ The End ~

**Author's notes**

* * *

Well, that's it! the story that started in November of 2003 as an idea for a MuShiryu PWP and grew to become close to 30,000 words of ... whatever this is now. ("I sort of like "mystery-fantasy erotica" myself). A version of the first two chaptere was posted in November of 2004 for the French Sts ML (and revised a number of times as I continued to think out and write the rest of the fic.) ~ An earlier version of the first few chapters was translated by **Sahel** and appeared on the Miarroba yaoi forums, but I don't know if it's still there.

**Chapter 1 - Mu**  
If you didn't know, the Spectre is Papillion Myuu from the Hades chapter, who starts out as a huge, slimy caterpillar and metamorphoses into a beautiful but deadly butterfly-man. Mu uses an attack called Crystal Net to trap Papillion.

**Chapter 2 - Aldebaran**  
Alde is only 11 inches / 28 centimeters taller than Mu, which makes things challenging but not impossible.)

**Chapter 3 - Saga/Kanon  
**Another word from the evil author: Yes, I left it ambiguous whether it's Saga or Kanon in spots. You decide.

**Chapter 5 - Deathmask**  
Thanks to Westly Wolf for the sword info.

**Chapter 6 - "Rosebuds"**  
This was actually tacked on to the beginning of the Aiolia chapter, but because that chapter became so so long I posted this one separately ... also, I thought the girls deserved their own chapter.

**Chapter 7 - Aiolia**  
Thank you to **musouka** for her insights into Aiolia.

**Chapter 8 - Shaka**  
I struggled with the chapter for months. I knew what I wanted to express, I knew what images I wanted to present, I even knew more or less how I wanted it to end, but Shaka … Shaka is a pain in the ass to write IC. He's fascinating, but I have no idea of the motivations for his actions … I was, however, not willing to take the easy way and just throw him into a PWP situation (canon and character be damned) - although I can certainly empathize with the authors who take that escape route. (And I'm sure most readers were expecting a hot Shaka lemon, most likely with Ikki … am I right? Huh? Huh? Sorry … )

Anyhow, the tack I took here is based on my observation that most religions have two strains - on one hand the intellectual aspect, spirituality of mind, of dogma and abstract concepts, and on the other hand the realm of the heart, with compassion as the highest virtue. I don't know about Islam, but of the major religions I know of this seems to hold true (In Christianity it's like setting Aquinas next to St Francis.) Shaka seems to me to be an intellectual Buddhist/Hindu, the sort that focuses on the Noble Truths and seeing past the veil of maya and all that, and not so much on the type of Buddhism I would imagine to be practiced by Mu. When I realized what I was going to do with Aiolia's chapter, I also realized that Shaka's role in Aiolia's "rescue" could dovetail with Shaka's symbolic need to accept his own humanity and deficiencies - and everything that being human entails - by quite literally "embracing the messy."

Phew. Lemons are a LOT easier to write.

Grand thanks to me betas. **Toffee**'s nagging and feedback during a marathon 12-hour chat helped get me get over the hump to complete this chapter, and pointed out some off-notes about both Aiolia and Shaka that I'd missed. **Musouka**, on the other hand, has been a midwife for much of this fic; her observation that "the man closest to God is also the man furthest from man" was so succinct that I stole it wholesale. This chapter is dedicated especially to her for several reasons.  
(first post 10 Oct 04)

**Chapter 9 - Milo**  
Thank you again to my wonderful betas **Toffee** and **musouka**, and w00t for tough love and re-writes. Thank you to **Kats** for help with the French.

**Chapter 10 - Camus  
**Thanks to Soprano for the Portuguese.

**Chapter 11 - Finale**  
Thanks again to the wonderfully patient and articulate **musouka** and **Toffee** for beta.

I do apologize to Shura fans for not giving him his own chapter, and to Aphrodite fans for only giving him a quarter of one.

Final chapter first posted 1 February 2005  
rev gazillion 11 Sept 2005  
additional revision May 2007  
more revision Oct 2009

If you like, the fic, please review – it means a lot~!


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